The Savage Land Imbroglio
by seriousish
Summary: Taken hostage by the evil White Queen, the X-Men find themselves in the Savage Land, where Shanna the She-Devil rules the jungle, evil is on the move, and the natives are very, *very* friendly...
1. Unhappy Beginnings

Loosely based upon the classic comic book story by Chris Claremont, John Byrne and Terry Austin, as published in Uncanny X-Men #113 and onward, and the not-so-classic Shanna The She-Devil series by Frank Cho, published in 2005. Told now without any damn censoring. Some lines of dialogue taken from said story; guess them all and win a prize! Canon being what it is, this story is set in 1978, but with characters making references to current events as necessary; Marvel Time, everyone! Betaed by Meneldur. Support for 'The Savage Land Imbroglio' comes from readers like you.

DISCLAIMER: The following story is an adult-themed parody of the Uncanny X-Men comic book. The X-Men and all related characters are property of Marvel Comics. Go buy their comics, except for Spider-Man, since the Brand New Day bullshit is still going on. Wait, what happened with Doctor Octopus? Fuck...

WARNING: The following story contains adult themes, violence, and explicit descriptions of extreme sex and violence. It's not intended for minors. If you are below your country's age of legal majority, c'mon, there are a million young adult novels you could be reading instead. No animals or household objects were hurt or damaged during the writing of this story. You can't prove otherwise.

* * *

The City of the Sun God was crumbling. Once, the city of glass had been maintained by the same Atlantean technology that had helped stabilize the Savage Lands. But while that verdant jungle had become self-sustaining, the city had not. Many of its people had left for one local tribe or another. More still had been killed for disloyalty, speaking blasphemy against Garokk the Sleeping God. Of the Sun Empire, only this ruined city remained.

Zaladane knew this to be true. She told herself of it every day, speaking aloud in the measured tones that made such impassioned speeches to corral her remaining flock. Every day, she made pilgrimages to the ancient glass-that-imagined, seeing the days of yore when the entire Savage Land had fallen under the yoke of the Sun Empire, and the mountain underneath the City of the Sun God had shown its thrall with roars and great smoke.

But the smoke no longer came and the pictures, no matter how they moved, were still just pictures. And though every night she visited the tomb of her husband Garokk—who she was married to in absentia, as all high priestesses were stretching back to when the Sleeping God had walked—and she begged him to return, to awaken, to fulfill the dread prophecy that had once struck fear into all the tribes of the Savage Land… her faith was not rewarded. Her prayers were not answered.

She maintained her daily routine, bathing in the mountain water that chilled her like the heart of a stone. Once every possible speck of the wasting city's pollution was removed, she allowed the serving girls to anoint her with oil and rub it into her flesh until the dark skin gleamed like freshly polished onyx, her long, straight hair only a shade darker—marking her as the perfect mate for Garokk the Petrified Man.

The rest of her was similarly appealing to her long-lost, long-awaited husband. Her legs were long and powerful, tapering from firm thighs to dainty sandaled feet. Her arms were almost the same length, thin-muscled down to slender fingers, festooned with rings to give them the appropriate weight. A long neck led up to a narrow face of thin lips and slitted eyes, cruel cheekbones leading from her pointed ears to her pointed chin. In everything, she was tall and slender, like a diamond after being carved from the rough. Her breasts kept with the rest of her, unavoidably small, but well-framed by her red and white robes, which swept over her body like a bird's wings. She was a vision of striking loveliness, superior to any other among her people. And if she wasn't, she had them killed.

What remained of the once-mighty army had managed to capture a hunting party of Waidians. The green-skins would make adequate sacrifices to attempt appeasement of the Sleeping God. If not, perhaps in their entrails Zaladane would find some sign of her lord husband's return while she was still young and beautiful.

She had dreamed of him the other night. Garokk the Petrified Man had awoken and reclaimed the Savage Lands for her, his patient bride. First, he had rebuilt the City of the Sun God, more splendid and gleaming than ever! Then, he had reunified the People of the Sun, punishing some of the more egregious doubters to set an example, but forging the rest into an all-powerful army. Then, the Sun Empire resurgent! All the scattered peoples of the Savage Lands, no longer squabbling and worshipping, each in their own chaotic way, but all brought low before the might of the Sun Empire and its god!

Then, Garokk had fucked her as only he and he alone could do, dominating her, ravishing her, driving her to heights of pleasure that even her dreaming mind could not imagine.

That part of her dream was a little more vivid than the stuff about refurbishing the city, though it really did need it.

Soon, she knew, in her heart, her soul, her needing loins. Soon, the return of her lord husband, the end of the disbelievers, the reclamation of the Sun Empire. Zaladane stood in the balcony of her great citadel (greater still if they had possessed the technology to remove the graffiti from between the windows). She looked out at the City of the Sun God and, beyond its vined walls, the great reach of the Savage Lands. She imagined the unchecked growth razed into order, all the scurrying vermin that lived in that filth forced to kneel to her—and her lord husband, of course.

Perhaps she'd visit the Waidians before their sacrifice and offer her body to one or three of the more appealing ones. The Sleeping God would best appreciate an offering that had been shorn of lust, after all. It would bring her nowhere near the same pleasure as loving submission to her lord husband, naturally, but for her beloved, she would endure.

Suddenly, Zaladane heard a great thrumming overhead. Something was passing over her—her, in the highest tower of the city built atop the mountain! She looked up, and it took her a moment to know the shape of the thing, in all its bulk. It was like a great metal bird, though it moved slower than any she'd ever seen, more like the sun as it passed through the sky… or how a vulture slowly rode the air as it waited for its prey to submit to its deathly appetite.

And indeed, the vulture-thing was making a slow circuit of the Savage Lands, its shadow already passing over Gorahn Sea. She knew what this meant. It could only be outsiders, with their electric magic, and that meant one of the signs of the prophecy had been fulfilled! Soon, her lord husband would be returned to her! Soon, the Savage Lands would be made civilized!

She hurried to the Waidians' cell. She would have to celebrate… that is, _give thanks _toGarokk the Sleeping God for the blessing he was about to bestow upon her. The blessing carried within the outsiders' flying ship.

* * *

Jean Grey awoke slowly, not sure where… _who _she was. She'd been so many people over the past few months. The Phoenix, that cosmic entity whose animus was beyond all human understanding. Then a carny in Mesmero's sick circus illusion. Finally, a facsimile of her own ancestor, imagined to draw her into the clutches of Jason Wyngarde and the Hellfire Club. Being plain old Jean Grey, with her dull suburban childhood and gracious but unremarkable personality, was getting to seem…

Never mind that, she _was _Jean Grey, but _where _was she? Her mind was in shambles, the telltale sign of a psychic attack. One strong enough to overpower her? She remembered Scott—sweet, loving, dependable Scott—then violence. Capture! Bonds closing around her body, tighter, tighter.

She managed to get her eyes open. She'd come to rely on her psychic powers so much, in the wake of her death and fiery rebirth, that sight had become counterintuitive, like sniffing the air to learn your surroundings. She was in a small room, the glossy metal and blinking lights those of high technology. She was seated, her chair curving around her to secure her arms, legs, and head. She couldn't move, and her immediate impulse to disintegrate her captor simply resulted in a rush of blood to her head. She was imprisoned with inhibitor technology.

Jean looked around the room, feeling ashamed of herself for only now realizing that her friends were locked up with her. There was Scott—_no, not him_—Logan, Piotr, Ororo, Kurt… even Hank McCoy who had gone off to join the Avengers. All seated in similar chairs as hers, all lined up in a circle. Ororo was across from her, and it hurt Jean's heart to see the worshipped goddess denied the freedom she embodied so much.

"Ah, good, you're up." Jean recognized the voice, that Gwyneth Paltrow accent that wanted oh so very much to be British. She hadn't known she could be angrier at whoever had captured and imprisoned her and her friends, but hearing that voice…

Emma Frost, White Queen of the Hellfire Club's Inner Circle, dominatrix, telepath, and supervillain, strutted into the room like she owned it and everyone inside. What grated on Jean was that both, for the moment, were true. And that Emma was dressed in a tightly laced white corset that did wonders for her breasts and waist; by contact, her white thong did nothing for her pubis but deflect accusations that she was _totally _nude. Her legs were actually covered more, encased in thigh-high boots of white leather and shielded from behind by the long cape of white fur that Jean could imagine coming off a polar bear, as if global warming weren't doing them enough favors.

She was a beautiful, intensely sexual woman, and Jean fucking hated her.

Emma did a circuit of the room, eying all her captives in turn like she was reviewing a purchase. Wolverine met with disappointment—the short, hairy mutant was an acquired taste even for his comrades in the X-Men. But the others were all approved, Emma's eyes lighting up in turn for each hard body and skintight uniform. She even took off her right glove to feel the thick, shaggy hair on Beast's chest, then the lighter and softer fuzz on Nightcrawler's face. Both met with hums of approval.

"I got into the wrong business. All day long, I'm surrounded by thugs. Even my fellows in the Inner Circle—chubby Leland, pompous Sebastian, and Donald Pierce… his cybernetic parts are far more appealing than what's left of his flesh. But you, Jeannie, you get to spend your hours surrounded by these fine specimens of evolution. Even your animals look like the toast of a furry convention. And here I'd heard that Dr. McCoy had a snout!" Emma laughed to herself.

Jean scowled, wanting more than anything to send a bolt of psychic force through the witch's bleach-blonde brain, but not risking it just yet. "What do you want, Frost?"

"The same thing as before. Mutants. Powerful mutants. To rescue them from their dull, ordinary lives and bring them into the rarified ranks of the Hellfire Club."

"I've heard your spiel before, Emma, and I know it's bull. You just want the power slaves can bring you."

"You don't seem to complain when it's that bald pervert in the wheelchair holding the whip."

"Don't you dare talk about the Professor that way!" Jean had to hold back her anger to keep from simply disintegrating Emma on the spot, and it was like trying to put out a fire with oily rags. "None of us will ever join you, Emma! You might as well release us now and hope we go easy on you next time."

Brushing her cape back to show off the swing of her hips, Emma advanced on Jean. "I don't want the X-Men. _You're _worth all of them put together and more besides. But first things first. I can see you haven't noticed your friends have joined us." Clapping her hands together, Emma looked around the room at the blankly staring eyes of her captives. "Welcome, guests, I trust you're all comfortable? I was just explaining to our girl Jean here your circumstances, so please pay attention, I will only be expositing once."

And, mockingly innocent, Emma sat on Jean's lap like she was about to ask Santa to bring her a new corset for Christmas. She made a gesture and Jean watched, horrified, as what looked disturbingly like a fembot in a French maid outfit entered the room. Even more disturbingly, it _was _a fembot in a French maid outfit, so overtly sexualized as to resemble one of that creep Hank Pym's inventions.

"Hello, children," the robot said in a voice that would be sugary sweet if not for the electronic trill breaking it up. "It's so nice to meet you. I hope we shall all be great friends."

"This is Nanny," Emma introduced, clapping her hand on the robot's arm as it passed to wipe a speck of dust off Kurt's chair. "She will tend to your every need. Well…" Emma smiled sinfully at Jean. "_Almost _every need. You'll find her to be the perfect mother. And you'll find this room to be the perfect cage." Almost lovingly, Emma brushed Jean's hair aside to touch the metal headpiece that Jean had felt restraining her. "This circuitry touches your central nervous system. As I'm sure most of you tried to use your powers on me the moment you awoke, I trust you've uncovered what its design is?"

Jean's rage flared. She summoned all her power and threw it at Emma's smugly beautiful face. Nothing happened. Her mind was clear as it could be with the Phoenix's passion and power inside it, but like a hand that had fallen asleep, her mutant gift simply would not obey her. She tried to move, gesture as had so often helped her concentrate, but that too was impossible. She spasmed like she was epileptic. Jean tried to scream and force her power out, but even that didn't happen. Her angry cry emerged scrambled into a baby's gibberish—a call taken up by the other X-Men as they seized with their own impotent power.

"You only think and speak because I allow it," Emma explained, tying herself closer to Jean, close enough to rest her head on Jean's shoulder. "What I do not allow is for the others to speak, for them to move, and certainly not for them to use their powers. I won't even allow them to die. No, your friends possess all the powers they've ever had, but they can no more use them now than they could as a six-month-old child. That's what they've been reduced to. Our little angels."

Jean felt speech return to her, the Phoenix's fury calming to a sulky chill. Emma had her. The most dangerous woman she'd ever known had her and her friends dead to rights, and for some reason was fixated on her in particular. Jean would have to play this smart—for her friends if not for herself.

"What do you want?" she asked in a low voice.

"I love that question, even when it's not asked in the bedroom." Emma nuzzled herself against Jean's neck in a parody of passion. "I want _you_," she said, her voice too so low only Jean could hear. "I liked having a Black Queen of the Hellfire Club—another woman of similar power to me. Similar passions."

"I am nothing like you."

"Not at the moment. But let's face it—Wyngarde never would've been able to cage the almighty Phoenix unless she saw something wonderful in captivity. The problem was this…" Emma kissed Jean's cheek. "This skin. This shell. The old and obsolete Jean Grey, 'Marvel Girl'. Always having to come up with excuses to get a nice, hard fuck."

"You're sick."

"Your dialogue's getting worse, dear. Are clichés all you can come up with to answer me?"

"I wouldn't dignify your twisted delusions with answers."

"Hear me out," Emma said, and for a moment, her voice was almost pleading. She kissed Jean's cheek again, coolly, precisely. Jean thought of a scalpel. "Your psi-blocks are very good. I can't get past them. But if you were to lower them, if you were to _let me in_…" Emma inhaled sharply, and Jean had the unpleasant feeling of being scented. "I could rewrite you. Bring you more in line with my own glamorous life. We could be like sisters. And all the times when life has bored and disappointed you… _gone. _Imagine discovering your powers anew, under my tutelage. Imagine discovering your body's capacity for pleasure." This kiss was longer, and closer to Jean's lips. "No premature ejaculation. No fumbling condom. Just the pleasure of our bodies entwined together. And after that… our minds. You feel my pleasure… and I feel yours. The only problem would be… how would we ever stop cumming?"

"The only way I've ever touch you," Jean whispered, "is to slap that disgusting smirk off your face."

Emma straightened, watching dispassionately as Nanny wiped her lipstick from Jean's cheek. "Well, you think about it. As a telepath, I'm sure you'll be able to pick up the brainwaves of these Avenger wannabes. When their despair becomes too much for you, simply ask for me, and I'll release them. So long as you release yourself."

"The Professor will send people for us," Jean swore. "You won't get away with this!"

"From anyone else, I think I'd delight in those DC Comics clichés. But you, Jean darling… you're capable of so much more." Emma stood, regally pulling her cape around herself. "Don't bother hoping for rescue. This vessel has taken us where no one will ever find us. It's important for new couples to have their privacy." With one last loving touch to Jean's face, she said her last: "You are going to beg to accept my offer, Ms. Grey. I always make my lovers beg before they're allowed to come."

And with a turn so sharp that her cape nearly slapped Jean in the face, Emma strode out of the room, leaving it curiously silent. Jean knew why the other X-Men were all as quiet as her. Knowing they couldn't say a word except as garbled noise, they kept silent so as not to distract the others. Each hoping fervently that another would come up with a plan… an escape.

* * *

Doc was never going to finish his memoirs.

He had the first part done, that was easy enough. How he and his unit had been doing cold-weather training in the Arctic Circle when a freak storm had forced them in-land. Their plane had been miles off course when they spotted a landing site. Well, not a landing site exactly, but they were paratroopers after all. They set the ol' crate on autopilot and bailed. That was the last time they had any hope of getting home.

Their sanctuary was an oasis in the subzero temperatures of the Arctic. Cut off by a circle of mountains and heated by a unique geothermal event, it had ended up a bit of prehistoric times preserved like a time capsule. Dinosaurs, woolly mammoths, even cavemen. No rhyme or reason to it. They'd marshaled their supplies, built a fort, adapted, survived. That would've been unbelievable enough for any video game-let alone what happened next.

_Maybe I should save it for the sequel_, Doc thought. Savage Land 2: Electric Boogaloo.

That's what the natives called it. The Savage Land. Okay, land that time forgot. That was one thing. Then they'd found the rotting lab covered in swastikas, the naked blonde comatose in her glass tank like a naked Sleeping Beauty, and the German lady scientist who gave them all the answers to ask more questions. Blondie ended up getting nicknamed Shanna, after some comic book character. Doc knew it was supposed to be Sheena, but the misspelling gave her a bit of identity. He knew he'd hate getting woken up in a tube and called Clark Kent for the rest of his life.

She, and the good doctor, Dr. Elsa, had become part of the family that'd been forged out of months of living in the wild. Doc looked around his cabin-the place he'd put up with his own two hands and a lot of others', sturdy wooden walls and palm frond curtains. He'd been there so long that he'd stopped counting all the modern conveniences he missed (except for indoor plumbing) and started putting dates and times to the bric-a-brac of living. The bullet hole in the north wall where Shanna had mishandled a gun, the dent where some palooka had gotten wasted on homebrew and passed out into the wall during a Christmas party. Facts be faced, it was home now. It was more liable that the only people reading his life and times would be the tykes they got from cozying up to the locals.

There was one tribe in particular, the Fall People—dark-skinned, shockingly advanced, very peaceful. They lived on a plateau within walking distance of the base, and there'd even been talk of building a bridge across the treeline so you wouldn't have to risk anything biting your ass off when you wanted a neighborly cup of sugar. Doc supposed it was a good idea. Place like this, no real enemy, no real objective, no movies and no books, you had to find something to occupy the time. Doc supposed the locals were as good a hobby as any. If he were ten years younger, he might try his hand at some local customs himself.

But he was old and fat and balding and too enamored of his mustache to shave it off, even though he knew it made him look like a walrus. Thank God he'd packed his Playboy collection before shipping out. He'd heard porn was hard to get your hands on in the Arctic; whoever had told him that had _no idea._

"Writer's block?" Dr. Elsa asked, still retaining a thick Germanic accent despite her years in the jungle, and all her time with what was left of Delta Company. She still wore her labcoat too, just like the men tended to wear their tattered uniforms instead of adopting the leather and furs favored by the natives. You clung to what you could out here. Hell, 'Doc' was getting to answer to that little nickname like his momma had given to it. Easy to forget the last time someone had called him Dr. Rayford Hargrove, or anything similar.

Elsa had said she had contributed some of her DNA to Project Shanna, trying to pass on her intelligence and, let's face it, Aryan heritage. It was easy to see a few other things she'd passed on. Elsa was a head or so shorter than Shanna, and nowhere near as athletic as her; no one was. And she'd lived as softly as Doc had, these past few years, though even a sedentary lifestyle in the Savage Land meant you had to run for your life on a weekly basis. Good cardio.

For all that, she was such a looker, she had to wrap her blonde hair up in a bun about as tight as a neutron star and wear clunky black glasses to keep the Fall People from proposing marriage every time she stepped outside. Her breasts—well, he tried not to pay attention to those, any more than he did Shanna's, but he thought they might've been even fuller than Shanna's, though it was harder to tell with her full waist and wide, womanly hips. Shanna's wasp-waist and tight abs made her bust incredibly prominent; Elsa was more like an old pin-up. Everything buxom and curvy, soft and smooth where Shanna was so often hard and angular…

But it was the faces that marked them as sisters—or maybe mother and daughter, given the epidemic of teen pregnancies these days. Shanna's was drawn in comparison, with her hunting and fighting leaving not an ounce of fat on her. Elsa was by no means some baby-fat chipmunk, but there was no denying that if she had Shanna's cheekbones, they were behind the round, matronly cheeks of her oval face. No, what they really shared was their eyes. Striking blue, and each looking at people the same way. Detached, foreign, observant. Shanna probing for weaknesses, for threats, for… _something_, even if no one could say what it was. Elsa was similarly judgmental, eying everything and everyone with more scientific curiosity than warmth or friendship. Those icy-blue eyes only melted for Shanna, and even then only a little. Maybe in private, they were warmer. Elsa had maintained Shanna's stasis-tube while all her comrades had… well, whatever had happened to them.

Dr. Elsa snapped to a tense sort of attention. Adjusting her glasses, she said "Living in a fortress full of male _jarheads, _I am quite aware when I am being pictured naked!"

Doc blustered. "Nothing of the sort, doctor! Just thinkin' about you and Shanna."

Elsa squawked in offense.

"Trying ta figure out how to write you and Shanna into my little story. You're not the easiest intro to put down." He set aside his pen and stared at the page detailing the thirty-seventh day of their exile, the great Brontosaurus hunt. There was no such thing as a Brontosaurus, of course, it was really named something else, but damn if Doc could remember what, so... Brontosaurus. He'd been trying to decide whether to throw in some foreshadowing of Shanna and the Fourth Reich, or if he should just let that backstory drop all at once like the opening crawl in Star Wars. He should've paid more attention in Freshman English, that's what he should've done.

"That is simple," Dr. Elsa said humorlessly. "Near the end of the second World War, der Fuhrer sent his best and brightest scientific minds to a far-flung outpost here in the Savage Land, where he intended they continue HYDRA deep-science experiments in hoped of revitalizing the Fourth Reich after his own demise. However, the project failed due to an experiment gone wrong, and when dinosaurs managed to breach our security, only I and the gestating Shanna were spared. That was where you came in, and I trust you haven't forgotten that?"

How could he? Doc fingered one of the scars under his shirt. "You know, when you say it like that, you sound downright patriotic."

Elsa took his meaning, and her brow furrowed dangerously. "It was his title, that is all. I was an 18-year-old college student with exceptional marks in science, told I could serve my country by traveling to an exotic land and doing simple research assistant work. How was I to know of the killing fields? I am happy to see the remains of that... that... _unscientific _regime rot in this jungle. And I've never objected to you instilling American values in young Shanna over the proscribed teachings."

"That's cuz the German schoolteachers never showed," Doc pointed out. "So you just kept Shanna and her sisters on ice while you went on truckin'."

"Would you rather we tried to further her as a weapon? I may not believe in the Nazi Party-I may never had, if you could be so forgiving-but I do believe in _the science._ Shanna is a remarkable achievement. If I could get to a proper lab, with a proper team, there's no telling what that body of hers could unlock. Imagine a cure to sickle-cell anemia, or cystic fibrosis!"

"Yeah, yeah." Doc waved her off. It was a moot point anyway. She could have her jackboots and red armband buried in the backyard, it wasn't like it made a difference. None of the boys were Jewish even. And Shanna certainly wasn't, with that fair white skin, the blonde hair and blue eyes... "Say, where's our girl?"

"Shanna?" As always, Elsa took a peculiar relish in Shanna's improvised name. "She's with the tribesmen again. Der... what is word?... Capheads?"

So-called because the feathers they wore in their hair had reminded someone of Captain America's winged helmet. "Fall People. We're sure they're not cannibals?" Doc groused.

"Nein. Cannibalism has actually been recorded so rarely among primitive cultures that it is statistically nonexistent, largely a facsimile built of urban myth and racist speciousness."

"I was joking."

Elsa's eyes flashed. "It is hard to tell sometimes. You do not trust them?"

"I trust God and my semi-automatic."

"And that is why you have been in here for three days straight? Because they are inside and everything else is out?"

He shuffled through the sheaf of papers he'd filled. "Author's a lonely job."

"I think it has more to do with that." And she pointed.

Doc picked up his crutch, as if for her benefit, and hoisted himself onto his one leg. The other, Shanna had chopped off to free him from a rockslide. It'd been a pretty good deal. Keep the leg and lose the rest of him when the raptors came, or lose the leg and keep the rest. Shanna'd made the right choice. "Well, long walks on the beach have gotten a lot harder."

"Perhaps if I came with you? I can build a litter in case there's another rockslide."

Doc supposed he deserved that. He added a period to the last sentence he'd written and turned to face the door.

* * *

Shanna had been the one to find that if you butchered a spinosaurus and yanked out its musk-gland, you could mark a good-sized area as its territory. Couple that with shooting any varmints who got ornery, and you have a safe space past the walls. Room enough to grow crops, herd cattle... yes, Doc was quite proud of ol' blue-eyes. "How _is _our girl-really?"

Elsa walked close by his shoulder. With her hands clasped tightly behind her back and her deliberate gait, she looked like he could walk off a cliff and she would only watch disdainfully, but she'd proven herself enough times for him to know she'd put her own life on the line to drag him back to base if it came to that. "How do you mean?"

"She looks... different, this past year. Y'know? Not that she ever wasn't a knockout, but before, I would've pegged her as twenty-something. Now... not that she ain't the most youthful thing I ever saw, but she seems more mature somehow. I don't know how to explain it..."

"Her hips have widened. She's gained a cup size. Her hair is more vibrantly colored. There are more superficial changes, but those are most indicative of internal shifts."

Doc stopped walking to lean on his crutch. "Internal shifts?"

Elsa walked past him, stopping a few feet away with her back to him. "Yes. I believe Shanna's body is preparing for motherhood. Do not be confused; I do not imply she is pregnant. Merely that she is entering a sort of... 'mating season,' I believe the English is."

Doc blinked. He might as well give up on the memoirs. This no editor would believe. "You made a _super-soldier _that goes _into heat_?"

Elsa shook her head tightly as she came to face him. "The experiments were highly unorthodox and very rushed; a brilliant but eclectic attempt to replicate your Captain America and his super-soldier formula. Dr. Erskine's work was light-years beyond our ability to comprehend. We improvised, mixing multiple disciplines and using methodologies gleamed from other failed experiments attempting to develop a viable clone harvest in time to save our homeland. Animal and mutate genomes were applied as necessary, accounting for Shanna's extreme stamina, speed, and strength. It is likely there were side effects to go with these blessings. Going into heat, as you put it, is merely my hypothesis."

"And if your hypothesis is right?"

"Judging by the extreme competence the subject has shown in other endeavors, I believe Shanna will select an appropriate mate or family unit to join with, as well as court multiple suitors of desirable genetic stock. You have already noticed the prodigious amount of time she spends with that local boy, Zar?"

Doc nodded. The kid seemed a little young for Shanna, practically still in his teens and only recently a hunter even by his tribe's own standards. Still, as Elsa had put it, by chronological age and emotional maturity, he was about on equal footing with clone-girl. "You telling me she wants him to be her... her _baby daddy_?"

Elsa shrugged. "This is all guesswork. It could simply be youthful hormones; he is quite... cute. And there are not suitable mates to be found here."

Doc rogered that. Most of the guys left on the base saw Shanna as kind of a kid sister, and while the others weren't immune to the charms of a stacked blonde in an animal-skin bikini, they were more like the pervy uncle at a Thanksgiving dinner than serious contenders. "Suppose I should be glad she ain't come onto me. I suppose she thinks of me as..." he grinned in a bit of bemusement. "Well, sort of a father figure, I guess!"

Elsa nodded once. "Or she does not believe you capable of providing her with offspring."

Doc's face fell.


	2. Fly Fishing

The waterfall poured a curtain of water into the cozily small lagoon, stirring up the waters before letting them escape into a thin stream that dwindled down through the jungle, providing a brief, cool drink for any animal passing. The lagoon itself-all sixty feet of it-provided a comfortable home for a multitude of shimmering fish, their scales seeming to laugh visually as they caught the light that didn't bounce off the sparkling water. In the sweet spot of the lagoon, halfway between the white waters of the waterfall and the quickening torrent that became the throat of the river, in the middle of the water where it was as placid and wavering as the dunes of the GobiDesert, there laid some kind of insect atop the lake surface. It moved only slightly, fitting its great size, and this interested the fish of the lagoon greatly. One detached from its school, swimming up with impressive speed to gobble the insect down before it left.

The next thing it felt was the lure's hook skewering it.

Zar watched as Shanna reeled the fish in. 'Fly-fishing,' as she called it, was quite strange to him, he and his tribes being used to spear-fishing. They never fished in the lagoon, despite its dense population, because the fish there were simply too fast to spear. And yet as counterintuitive as Shanna's method seemed, baiting a trap and then waiting for a fish to come to her, it was effective. Not as much fun, but effective. And spending a great deal of time with Shanna with nothing to do but wait for some dumb fish to bite was fun enough for him.

"Doc showed me how to do it. It's a very old tradition where he comes from," Shanna explained for perhaps the tenth time. She was as shy a conversationalist as Zar, which heartened him a little. The girls of his tribe seemed to have an opinion on everything from the color of the sky to the length of each others' hair, and he could only describe in stilted words how much he had liked observing a wild boar going about its business the past day, the stalking preparation for another hunt.

"Maybe if many of them fish this way at the same time, it is not so boring. Someone would always be getting a bite!"

Shanna nodded in thought. "I prefer the spear too."

As always, she saw right through him. It shouldn't bother him-she still spent a great deal of time with him, despite surely knowing what colored his heart every minute of every day, but he could not help but be embarrassed. Because surely, if she knew his feelings about simple fishing, then she also knew why he looked at her the way he did.

It was something Zar tried desperately to curtail. It wasn't as if her clothing, dainty as it was, covered any less than the woman of his tribe. They often went topless or fully naked, so long as it wasn't a ritual-day. And there were many great beauties among his tribe as well. Korza, with her long strong legs; Quinta, with the halo of curled hair she maintained so artistically; Jorla, whose thick arms and back let her toss around any man. Some of them even thought Shanna was displeasing to the eye-her pink skin might as well be the green of the Saurians, her yellow hair made it look like her head was catching fire, her blue eyes made it seem like her insides had frozen. Zar thought some of them must be jealous, because to him, Shanna was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, of any color.

And of late, she'd become impossibly, intolerably erotic. Her breasts and hips, any man's delight in women, had once been the size of the common tribeswoman. Now, her breasts strained at the covering that had once held them fully, while the back of her panties (as the outsiders called it) disappeared between firm, round buttocks whenever her loincloth flipped up. Her blonde hair (as the outsiders called it) seemed brighter than before, like it was metal and had been polished to gleam. Her skin was clearer, her scars only detectable by the faintest touch... and ever since she had told him Dr. Elsa was showing her something called 'make-up,' her lips appeared fuller, her eyes darker... on and on the perfections piled, until she seemed less mortal than god. A fertility goddess, holding the wondrous curves of the tribe's matrons with also the hardness and sleekness of the warriors.

Was it any wonder Zar could barely control his power-of-man when she visited him? He tried everything, sitting cross-legged, heavier loincloths, thinking of the most savage sights the hunts had to offer-even the time he'd seen Doc bathing in the lagoon-but she made his power-of-man so strong that it overcame all obstacles placed before it. She always seemed to _realize_, giving him a look both curious and knowing, and even if his power-of-man was dormant, that look would bring it to life. Sometimes he even had to think up excuses to end their hunts early, so he could go somewhere private and perform the polishing-of-the-spear upon himself.

Some of the other hunters, older but not wiser, had realized her hold on his power-of-man. They callously asked why he did not simply ask for her blessing with a kiss or a brisk touch to the behind (their suggestions became progressively cruder from there), as if she could not simply refuse him and make him forever shame-faced. And him knowing for a fact that those same hunters were harangued by their mates day and night, either in hopes of receiving their blessing upon their power-of-man or because the women did not find their power-of-man sufficient to their blessing!

No. No, he would track his prey, learn its tracks, its spoor, its movements and habits, so that one day he could flush it out into the open and-

His power-of-man had been summoned again.

By then, Shanna had reeled the fish in-this was also strange, as she seemed to spend as much time allowing the fish to attempt escape as she did pulling it to shore. Zar sat down quickly by the fire he'd prepared, crossing his legs to hide the power-of-man and focusing on how she gutted the fish for the fire-pan. Getting so deep inside the fish-this was not helping.

"I hope the taste is worth the effort," Shanna said, tossing the bones aside with one hand while tossing the flesh into the pan with the other. It sizzled explosively and she licked her fingers clean of blood. That also did not help.

_Go away, power-of-man, I have no use for you! _he thought desperately, but it would not listen to him. Only Shanna. That... that she-devil!

"I'm sure it will be," Zar said. She looked at him and laughed. She only seemed to do that around him. Like so many things, Zar did not know if that was for good or ill.

"I like your hair," she added, as her laugh became a smile became her usual set expression.

"My hair?" he asked, reaching up to touch it as if he hadn't noticed it before. He'd never quite liked it. Although he'd lived nearly twenty eclipses and been on his first hunt, he still had not slain a raptor and earned the right to wear his hair in the hunters' dreadlocks. It remained a wedge of wispy curls that defied all control, like a woman's. He would've liked to shave it off, as did 'Billy' of the soldiers, who many of the tribeswoman spoke of lovingly, but the shaman told him that would offend the spirits.

"Yes. It looks very soft, but also... not like the soldiers' hair, when they don't care. Not _unkempt_," she added, in the rigorous tone she always got when remembering Dr. Elsa's language lessons. "May I touch it?"

Zar could've sworn his power-of-man spoke to him then. _Say yes, YES you idiot! If she touches you, perhaps you can touch her! The shamans say never to touch without permission, but why would she deny you permission when you have given her yours?_

"Yes!" he blurted out, rather too excited, and felt a dread in the pit of his stomach and a stirring in his loins as her eyes dropped down momentarily. That. Knowing. Look.

She-devil.

Shanna reached out, leaning across the fire, and Zar lost his breath as he realized he could see directly down her top-covering, seeing almost all of her breasts but the nipples themselves. He looked away hurriedly-from the way the soldiers spoke of them, he knew breasts had a great deal of religious significance in the outsiders' culture-but the only other thing to see was her face. She looked at him with the same stern intensity she regarded an opponent, or prey. All that was lacking was the joyful anticipation of victory she wore before violence. In its stead was... trepidation.

He had never known anything to make her nervous before.

_A-ha! _his power-of-man cried. _She fears the reaming we will give her once permission is given! Let her fear! Fear and want!_

_Shut up, power-of-man, _Zar thought, because Shanna's hand was in his hair. He liked the way it felt around; her touch itself made his hair seem softer, more luxurious than he would've believed. And when she didn't just feel, but reached down to his scalp and _touched_-oh, he should worry he would melt underneath her fingertips, but even were that to happen, he wouldn't fret over it at all.

"May I touch yours?" he asked, eying the gleaming gold hair that marked her as strange both to soldier and tribesman.

She nodded tightly, a hint of that old violent anticipation in her eyes. Bolstered by both her approval and his always-approving power-of-man, Zar reached out and ran his finger down a strand of hair that had fallen cross her forehead. He tried to, at least. In his clumsiness, he more batted it around like a cat with a piece of string. She smiled, and imitated the motion, swiping her finger through the bush of his wiry hair.

Somehow unfretted, he circled his finger until the lock of hair was whirled around it, amazed at how fine and delicate it seemed. Was there anything else he could touch so slender that would not be ripped apart by the gentlest breath? It seemed as impossible as balancing a rock on a spider-web, but there it was, wrapped around his finger.

"Touch more of me," she said, and it wasn't either a command or a question, but a bit of both. Zar unspooled his finger from the curl he'd put in her hair, moving his hand down over that wonderfully balanced face, its symmetry both delicate and stone-hewn, the eyes tipping it from the innocent challenge of a girl-child to the aggression of a tiger. Her skin was even finer to the touch than her hair, and he envied all who would come to touch her for being able to feel this for the first time.

Her lips parted. Her tongue peeked out of her mouth. And then she said the worst thing she could have said "Your loincloth is moving."

Zar looked down, though there was no need. "I'm sorry, my power-of-man comes sometimes when it is not needed..."

"Cock," Shanna said simply.

"What?"

"It's a cock." Her hand opened. "I know what to do with cocks."

Even his power-of-man was silent as she reached down and pulled aside the flap of his loincloth, exposing his full length. Zar hoped she did not find him too unsightly. He knew her people tended toward smaller endowments, and could only hope she did not find him grotesquely oversized. What if she told him he would not fit!?

"I'm sorry, I forgot to ask. May I touch you there?"

Zar's power-of-man roared back to life. "Yes!" it said through his lips.

Trepidation leaving her, she smiled confidently and grasped him. Immediately he was shocked into ecstasy. He had always enjoyed his own touch during the polishing-of-the-spear, but Shanna seemed to know how to touch him better than he knew himself! Her grip was both soft and sure, growing warmer as she clenched and relaxed her hold to get comfortable. He groaned and bucked his hips without meaning to. And seeing his delight, Shanna started to rub.

Zar closed his eyes. He did not think he could stand both the sight of Shanna in all her glory _and _the way she was touching him. She easily surpassed his own awkward fumbling for orgasm with a swift, sure hold that ran up from the base of his cock, tapered down the head, and then ran back down the shaft. It was exquisite, her curled fingers seeming to give every bit of his manhood wonderful attention. She knew exactly how to hold him, stroke him, caress him, and pleasure him. And she soon learned that moving her hand faster just made things better on his end. Shanna liked making things better for him.

"You may touch me as well," she offered, drawing up the flap of her loincloth to reveal her own needy sex, carefully shaven to resemble the women in the hidden magazines. "Sometimes I become wet down there when I think of you. I am wet right now. I hope it doesn't bother you."

Zar didn't hear her question. Zar wouldn't have heard a T-rex roaring three feet behind him. He was dead to the world, all the consciousness in his body dragged out of its proper flesh to be crammed into his cock (as the outsiders called it). Shanna was stuffing him in tighter and tighter, her hand making a sweet prison for him, and it was shaking apart as she went faster. Zar could never remember being so hard, his power-of-man so loud, an inarticulate scream to possess her and worship her and punish her and mate her. The thinnest strand connected it to the feeling of the polishing-of-the-spear, but it was so much more intense, there was no way to compare the two. He thought he might die, it felt so good.

And he wouldn't have cared one bit.

"Zar, are you alright?" Shanna asked, and when he opened his eyes to see that lovely concerned face and fine young teats and the ready pink lips of her femininity, his power-of-man roared louder than ever before. Like the great volcano he erupted, his seed flung mightily, landing as high as Shanna's shoulder and as far as the water of the lagoon. His man-roar seemed to last an entire moon, draining him of all lifeforce even as it freed his spirit to expand back into his body and feel the aching pleasure encasing him. But finally, he was himself again, and his indefatigable manhood lay fallen against his thigh, a waning drip of seed the only sign of life.

She had killed his power-of-man!

Shanna seemed satisfied with his... outburst, daintily licking a dollop from her shoulder and swishing it around her mouth to know its taste. Her verdict didn't show on her face; she only nodded to herself. Then she shucked her top-covering and laid down upon the beach, her spread legs easily overcoming her loincloth's modesty. He could see all of her, from the grand red nipples that crowned her glorious breasts, to the blessing-of-woman that blazed like a setting sun with her own arousal. He even saw the small puckered hole of disposal, which some hunters claimed could be pillaged as pleasurably as the breeding-hole, or more so. Shanna, all of her, was laid out before him like a tender roast on a spit, the meat only needing the lightest bite to be devoured.

"And now touching?" she asked, licking him from her fingers just as she had the fish-grease. Evidently, his taste met with her favor.

But Zar's power-of-man, which sometimes rose three or four times no matter how hard he polished the spear, would not wake. He was afraid. Afraid of not being able to give her the same pleasure she had just given him, afraid of her coyly knowing look turning to one of disgust when she learned what kind of touching he so deeply desired-afraid of not being able to fit. He could not summon the courage, and even if he could, his power-of-man would not obey him. He had to leave, leave before she came to remember him this way, a scared little boy of no real hunts who had not the power-of-man to mate a woman in the proper fashion.

Scrambling in a sudden panic, Zar adjusted his loincloth so it once more covered him. "I must go!" he said quickly, and when she looked at him quizzically, he repeated himself even faster, to sound like a bird squawking. "_Imustgo!_"

And he ran into the jungle so fast that Shanna looked around for the raptor swarm that must have scared him so. There was none to be found.

Remembering Doc's lessons on modesty, Shanna once more draped herself. She licked her shoulder clean, like a cat would, deciding that although it was a very new taste, she quite liked the flavor of the sap that came from cock.

She wondered if all men had such tasty sap inside them.

* * *

Zar could not believe his own stupidity. He wanted to run back to the lagoon and see if Shanna was still there, beg her to disregard his ridiculous cowardice. Certainly, his power-of-man had been exhausted… that did not mean he couldn't have used his fingers or tongue upon her. Hadn't he always thought to himself how diligently, how lovingly he would attend to a woman's pleasure in such a way, if only a woman would deign to have him? Not like the older hunters, who merely wanted to satisfy their power-of-man and then cast aside their women like dirty rags. Well, at least those hunters gave their women some small measure of satisfaction. All he'd given Shanna was probably a sore wrist!

What was wrong with him? Something had to be wrong with him. He was handsome enough—he thought. Long limbs, some muscles, he washed his hair each day… he wasn't even that bad a hunter. He could probably bring down a Gallimimus by himself if the older hunters weren't there to beat him to it. So why was it that when it came to Shanna, he went down like a compy in a tar pit?

All the other hunters got to be predators with their mates—wooing them, courting them, seducing them. With Shanna, he felt like the prey. Blinded like he'd gotten a face full of Dilophosaurus bile. It wouldn't be so bad—nothing about what Shanna had done to his power-of-man had been bad, except the idiot he'd made of himself after—but didn't Shanna deserve a hunter? A big, strong man to protect her and take care of her? Well… a strong man, at least? Zar could do nothing about the few inches she scaled over him.

Zar had just resolved to return to the village and practice with his spear until he was worthy of Shanna, when he heard a rumble behind him. A deep, almost volcanic rumble.

The growl of the sabretooth tiger.

Zar was not such an idiot that he did not carry his trusty stone knife with him at all times. His hand dropped to his hip, where it was strung to his loincloth. Carefully, he began to draw it. An insane part of himself that sounded much as his power-of-man had spoke excitedly of how this was sure to impress Shanna… assuming he survived.

Then he heard the second growl coming from alongside him and knew the only way he would impress Shanna was if he left behind a good-looking corpse.

* * *

[c1]as counterintuitive as Shanna's method seemed, baiting a trap and then


	3. Sweet Release

Onboard the White Queen's floating ship, Ororo Munroe was trying very hard not to lose her mind.

Ever since she was a little girl, she'd been claustrophobic. Sometimes the only way she could stand a narrow hallway or a crowded elevator was to remember her power. She was Storm, mistress of the elements, and with a thought her lightning could break her free of anyplace, let her take to the wind in the ultimate act of freedom. Even without her gifts, she could run, she could fight.

But the White Queen's sadism denied that comforting thought to her. She was a prisoner in her own body, without anything to distract her from her own skin tightening on her. What memory could be as powerful as the fear she now felt? The metal binding her body had warmed with her heat to insensateness. The only thing she really _felt _was her own bladder, starting to pulse with the desire to urinate. She focused on it, because at least it was a break from the crushing tightness, at least it was something she could control.

"Oh!" Nanny said, with a particularly unpleasant squeal of feedback. She was looking up from tying bows in Beast's hair—one of many activities Emma had programmed into her as if to see whether someone really could be killed with kindness. "Does baby need to piddle? Hold on! Nanny's coming!"

Ororo felt a trace of anxiety, a dripping sweat running down her spine, as the robot approached. It broadened her world enough for the claustrophobia to let up. So at least she was calm as the hateful thing undid her ring connecting the two halves of her uniform, then the one in back, then slid off her bottoms as artlessly as a diaper. Below Storm, the seat of her chair irised open to reveal a quite plain toilet bowl. She could've laughed. Emma really had thought of everything. Knowing her, the vile creature would think nothing of holding them captive for years if it resulted in her getting what she wanted.

"There we are!" Nanny trilled. "Time to go, little one. Just go for Nanny!"

Ororo refused. Even if she needed to, even if she wanted to, she would never capitulate to the White Queen or any of her minions. She'd die giving the least of Emma's men a hangnail, if that was all she could do.

But of course, Emma would not allow that. Seeing her resistance, Nanny simply formed her hand attachment into a bowl and filled it with warm water. Already, Ororo felt herself color with embarrassment. Surely, this wouldn't be done to her—not in front of her closest friends, who looked up to her as deputy leader!

But Emma, and by extension Nanny, was irresistible. Nanny hoisted up Ororo's limp hand by its wrist and dipped it into the water. Ororo fought so hard within her mind that she ended up spewing a vomit of gibberish, but that just served to draw the others' attention. They tried not to watch, Ororo could tell, but they must've heard her as her body gave into Nanny's sick demand.

When she was done, Ororo thought she couldn't have felt more humiliated. She hadn't counted on the White Queen's true ingenuity when it came to getting what she wanted, and breaking those in her way. Nanny released her hand, wiped it dry, then drew one of her many washcloths from the cabinet built into her chest. "Has baby wet herself? Does baby need to be dried? Does baby need to be cleaned?"

_You will pay for this, Emma Frost! _Ororo swore, though she knew it wouldn't be for a long, long time.

Nanny's hand shifted again, this time forming the perforated surface of a faucet. Water spewed from it, shooting between Ororo's parted legs into the basin below her. Ororo could only watch as the water chanted to an alternating aerated spray, then a mist spray, then finally a pulsating jet spray. Then Nanny brought the spray up to Ororo's belly, and when it crossed her sex Ororo felt pure heat. Only when it was gone did she start to feel ashamed of herself.

The spray brushed over the muscles of Ororo's abdomen, eradicating any chance of pollution, and moved lower, and lower. The water felt hatefully good on her skin, relaxing and invigorating, but it stopped being relaxing the lower it went. When it reached her pussy, the water slapping against the top of her hood, her clit, and streaming down her labia, she felt the heat again. This time it caught fire, and she squirmed with pleasure, fighting it.

It was easier once the jet spray became too much, stinging a little. But then Nanny moved on, soaking her inner thighs. Ororo tried to remember the feeling of nothing she'd been lamenting earlier. Now she felt everything. Her skin heating up with the desire to be touched in the same way her pussy was, and her face burning up with embarrassment. When the spray moved back to her groin, Ororo clenched her thighs together to stop it, but that just seemed to make the blood rush, hotter and faster, in her crotch. She was on the verge of orgasm, and the more mortified she was by it, the hotter she got.

The rush of water alone, nothing to associate with it, not even a human face… it was easy to forget where it came from. Who it came from. Her hips bucked forward as Ororo decided, on some subconscious level, that she was going to come, damn Emma Frost to hell.

But it was not to be. The spray died down, leaving Ororo with a furnace's worth of heat and nowhere for it to go. She could've cried. To give into this sick game and then to not even be rewarded for it…! This was Frost, it had to be, using her telepathic powers to mess with her mind. Make her wants things she didn't really want. It was all Frost, all Emma Frost…

Nanny took out a soft, fluffy towel with a cheery 'Frost Hotels' logo on it, and gently but thoroughly, she wiped Ororo dry. The contact brought Ororo's arousal flaring back to life, but she was ready for it now. At least, she didn't feel the same mortification. _It's just Frost, it's not you, it's Frost, Frost, Frost…_

Then it was over. Nanny was taking the towel away and Ororo could breathe again. Nanny pulled Ororo's bottoms back up and hooked their rings back onto the top half of her costume. The feeling of cotton-lined leather against her cunt was suddenly foreign, pleasurable, and Ororo squeezed her legs together again to prolong it.

"There now. Nice and dry," Nanny reported, her sugary-sweet voice driving Ororo's pleasure even further away. "I must be off, children. I'll be back at lunchtime. And this afternoon, before your naps, I'll read you a nice story."

Ororo could've screamed. She could _feel _how nice her orgasm would've been, feel it dissipating back into the nothingness she'd had before. And with her arms bound, her legs bound, there was nothing she could do to summon it back. She couldn't even ask one of the others to talk dirty to her, she thought with hysterical laughter bubbling under the surface, and they couldn't even dirty-talk!

_Wait! _The thought was like a clarion call, bursting through the despair that had threatened to overwhelm Ororo. _My legs! I squeezed my legs together! I could move!_

Think, think! How was that possible? The system blocking their powers should've also stopped all conscious muscle control. She should've been no more able to move her legs than she could recite the Declaration of Independence. How? _How?_

Ororo tried it again. As she'd feared, her legs barely responded, although they still moved more than they had when she was first imprisoned. As Emma said, she'd been reduced to a six-month-old child.

Ororo's mind whirled. The system would be set up to allow Ororo to continue breathing, her heart pumping, even to urinate—all the bodily functions that everyone, from six months to sixty years, needed to live. But perhaps… perhaps the system didn't account for feelings no six-month-old could possibly have. It wouldn't be set up to block those. Feelings of arousal—of sexual fulfillment.

_Or maybe_, Ororo thought with a trace of smugness, _Emma set it up that way thinking the X-Men were all sticks-in-the-mud that couldn't possibly discover this vulnerability. _Well, she was in for a rude awakening. Ororo was far more libertine than she let on. Not in the fetishized, provocative way of Emma Frost and her sex club, but in the way of nature. Perhaps she had some urges she was ashamed of, but there were far more she wasn't.

_Focus. Concentrate. _Although she wasn't adverse to her desires, Ororo also kept them on a tight leash, as she did all her feelings lest they affect her powers. It was one thing to trigger a light drizzle because she'd seen a sad movie; it was another to grow so angry that she brought down a lightning storm on innocent people. But now she would have to give her desires free rein.

She tried to think of past love affairs—of Forge, of T'Challa, even of Callisto. It wasn't enough. She needed… fresh stimulation.

First, she focused on Piotr. An obvious choice. He was tall, well-built, square chin, kind eyes. An ideal man, a man built for an American romantic comedy, his Russian accent and occasional (adorable) unease with Western conventions just icing on the cake. Ororo clenched her thighs. And his costume! While he was armored, it showed off all his metal muscles, making him an intimidating juggernaut. But when he was just flesh and bone, it showed at least as much skin as American superheroines' famously skimpy costumes. Taut, tanned skin rippling with muscle. She pictured those big hands holding her down, easily overpowering her feeble twists and turns of pleasure as he thrust into her, overwhelming her, overcoming her.

Ororo dragged her head upward, sitting stock-straight. Yes! Control! But she felt it waver almost immediately. The fantasy was unrealistic. She couldn't imagine Piotr so much as glancing at her backside without her consent. He would be soft and caring and gentle with her, but that wasn't enough to arouse her. She needed something more.

Wolverine. Ororo bit the inside of her cheek, almost in distaste. He was nothing like Piotr—short and crude and, while his lack of hygiene was exaggerated, he did tend to have a musk about him unfettered by cologne or deodorant. But despite his shortcomings, there was an obvious sex appeal. A sense of experience and desire. He'd take what he wanted because he wanted it, not caring that he was giving her what she needed at the same time. Throw her down on the bed, rip her clothes off, turn her over onto her belly and take her from behind. No romantic words, no sweet kisses. Just _him_, his hardness, his want. Ororo snapped her head forward and felt her headpiece shift a few precious inches. Yes!

Her eyes shot to Hank. An exotic choice, reminiscent of the great tigers of her native land. All those sleek muscles painted with blue hair, undeniably strange. And yet, wasn't there always a need for experimentation, novelty? He had the feel about him of a great lover, exuberant, joyful, inventive. Perhaps he'd use both hands and feet to bend her into some strange position, use her as he saw fit while he roared his triumph into the air. He could fuck her against the walls, on the ceiling, upside-down, smelling her arousal and need without her ever having to say a word.

Ororo felt bad, reducing her friend to a sexual animal, even in a fantasy, but it worked. She was able to once again flip her head up and down. Her headpiece fell onto her lap, exactly where she wanted it, without continuing on to the floor. She could see her lockpicks hidden in the tiara. But her control was abandoning her once again. She forced herself onto a new fantasy, turning her eyes to Cyclops.

_Forgive me, Jean. _Those who thought of the X-Men's leader as just a dull-as-dishwater Boy Scout didn't know the half of it. Ororo had known multiple telepaths, and all of them had commented on _something _that Scott kept hidden behind his hard-working façade, a darkness that he kept perfectly in check. Ororo was more empathic than most, and that was all she needed to know that Scott had far more kinkiness in him than the ghoulish self-aggrandizing Hellfire Club could conceive of, with their boorish strippers and obligatory whips. There was no saying what he and Jean did behind closed doors, but it was telling that Jean Grey, who could have any man or woman she wanted, was amply satisfied by that one man.

And what a man—that skintight costume, hugging every line of the musculature he exercised obsessively to maintain, one more sign of the discipline he valued above all else. The visor adding an intriguing touch of distance, placing him at a patriarchal remove where he could judge and order and watch. She imagined him forcing her to her knees, working himself out of his costume—and there would be quite something to take out, because even telepaths were shallow. Ordering her to suck, suck hard, telling her exactly what he needed from her and knowing he would get it. Would he come in her mouth? On her face? Her tits, maybe, then ordering her to clean it up, licking his shockingly white seed off her brown flesh…

As if she were doing exactly that, Storm bent her head, stuck out her tongue, and used it to maneuver the lockpick out of the pins that held it in place. Then she clenched it in her teeth. _One more step, _she thought. One more!

Her jaw was weakening, though, her mouth about to drop open no matter how hard she fought it. She just needed a little more time, to keep her heart racing a little longer. She thought desperately. Who else, who else? Kurt, with his tail, his devilish fangs, his charm and endless sensuality? He'd eat her out, finger her, tantalize her with his tail, whispering dirty nothings in her ear—no, that wasn't enough, too sweet, too caring. She needed danger and dirt and darkness. She needed… she needed.

Ororo looked directly across from her, where Jean was sitting. _Jean. _The psychic. The Phoenix. Had she overheard everything Ororo had thought? Every fantasy, every masturbatory detail, every shameful desire?

It was an alluring thought.

There was no denying Jean had been more sexually active since her eponymous rebirth, often dragging Scott away from other activities to disappear into the mansion's dark corners. Her costume was tighter, more flattering, emphasizing her ample curves. And in fights, it always seemed to get torn and tattered in the most interesting places, and Jean always took a great deal of time to repair it with powers she could use in only an instant. And sometimes the way she looked at people—usually Logan, but sometimes others, even Emma for a moment as they'd talked just hours ago—like she was at the window of a candy shop. Imagining the taste. The texture on her tongue.

Ororo imagined Jean—her best friend, her closest friend—as a slut. It fit disturbingly well. Jean would eat her out, but not like Kurt. No, Jean would devour her, hold her down and spread her legs and lick her to her core just for the taste of her. Ororo fixed her jaws and lowered the lockpick to her shackles. She didn't need her eyes for this, just the feel and sound of the tumblers, and so she focused on Jean. Jean, wiggling around in her excitement over Ororo's escape attempt. Thrusting her breasts out, throwing her head back in a paroxysm of lust—Ororo could've sworn she was doing it on purpose. There even seemed to be a smile on Jean's face, visible through her slack expression.

She mustn't use too much pressure, mustn't go too fast… but her arousal was making it hard to concentrate. It was very easy to picture Jean naked, with her costume seeming even tighter and thinner than that of her boyfriend's. Ororo could've sworn she saw Jean's hardened nipples pressing through her suit. But that was impossible. She wore a bra, right?

Ororo felt the first tumbler go. She thought of Jean's fingers raking down her body, clawing her from her breasts to her belly. The second tumbler went. She imagined Jean pulling her hair as she mounted Ororo's face, forcing her needy cunt into Ororo's mouth, her flight power making it easy to grind and wheel against Storm. Third tumbler! What if Jean went harder, faster, never letting up as she ravished Ororo to the very limits of her endurance? Spinning her around to smack her ass, then flipping her back up to bite her nipples, fingering her, licking her, even penetrating her anus. And with Jean's incredible powers, would it be so hard to fashion a strap-on out of molecules, to take Ororo not just in one hole, but in her ass, her mouth, her cunt. To fuck her every which way, all at once, until she passed out, and even then fucking her in her dreams, until finally she'd had her satisfaction, leaving Ororo to wake up in her own cream.

Ororo looked at Jean. Jean winked back.

The last tumbler exploded into sequence and released the lock. Ororo ripped her hand free, tore off the headband holding her captive, and before she could think of anything else, pressed her hand down hard between her legs.

As the rest of the X-Men watched in stunned silence, Ororo had the best orgasm of her young life.

All, that is, except for Jean. She raised an eyebrow.

* * *

A fair distance away from the unpleasant environment of the X-Men's prison was Emma's personal quarters, which doubled as the ship's bridge. All the cold, sterile metal that suffused the ship was leavened by expensive rugs, decadent leather chairs, a handful of paintings, and a touch of incense. It was more luxurious than most hotels.

Inside was Tessa. Simply Tessa. She had no need of a last name in Emma's employ. She was almost the polar opposite of her mistress; tanned skin instead of pale, dark hair instead of light, a lean and muscular body in contrast to Emma's wasp-waisted figure. Her clothes continued the theme: instead of flattering and worshipping like Emma's clothes, the black literally covered her up, a leather catsuit zipped up to the neck, covering her from her high heels to her dog collar. Her white mink stole, emasculated in comparison to Emma's decadent cape, completed the positioning of her as a thrall of Emma's. The very sight of her was a pointed rejoinder to Jean Grey; darkness subservient to white.

At the moment, Tessa was trying to think of a way to free the X-Men, but it was hard to when she was touching Emma so carefully.

For years, she'd served the Hellfire Club in whatever capacity they chose for her, from valet to bodyguard to chauffeur to 'entertainment'. Catching Emma's eye had finally seen her promoted to right hand of the Inner Circle, their eyes and ears wherever their interests lay. It was a job she was well-prepared for. She'd been doing it for Professor X since before she joined the Club.

After the X-Men had been disabled by a combination of knockout gas and psychic assault, Tessa had been the only one Emma trusted to help her secure the prisoners in her transport without informing the Lord Cardinals. At the time, Tessa's computer mind had been unable to come up with a way to save them without blowing her cover. And keeping Xavier aware of the Hellfire Club's activities was worth some minor discomfort on his students' part. Now they were both trapped-Tessa unable to do more than watch until she came up with a way to give them an escape route without attracting suspicion, and the X-Men in that sick prison Emma had prepared for them.

And the worst part was, Tessa couldn't even concentrate on finding a way to help her erstwhile comrades. Emma had been so wound up from sparring with Emma that she'd demanded a massage. The woman was truly unpleasable-she could be satisfied for a few moments, but that only inspired her to think up new chores for Tessa to do. At least this one was something she could sink her teeth into.

Tessa calculated the appropriateness of that thought. It was satisfying to have a job she could stick with instead of dashing from one oddjob to the next, but she came up with a 92% chance that she'd picked a strange way to express it, even to herself. She refocused on Emma before the woman could notice her distraction.

As always, Emma Frost was fully nude for her massage, her body showing not one hint of a tanline-invaluable, given the truly outrageous costumes she wore. So much as a bra strap could ruin the expanse of skin she delighted in showing off. Her skin was all softly pale, pinking slightly where Tessa rubbed, but in all other aspects almost albino. The resemblance was increased by the light platinum shade she'd dyed her hair this week, almost matching her skin tone.

"Lower," Emma ordered. "Harder." She always liked things harder, right up until she gave the fateful cry 'Ooh, Tessa, not so rough!' Then she'd pout and punish Tessa, for her own good of course.

Tessa ran her hands lower, finding the small of Emma's back as soft and smooth as the rest of her, like liquid diamond. The muscles were tense there, all the stress of planning and executing the capture, but they obediently loosened for Tessa's fingers until they were as warm and ruddy as flower petals. Emma never carried stress for long. No matter how wickedly she acted, the tension never stayed with her. It melted away with the pleasure of ordering Tessa to attend to her.

Oh, how Tessa hated her.

"I said _lower_, darling," Emma murmured, her gentle chiding indicating that she had already selected a suitable punishment for whatever crime against self-indulgence she would find Tessa guilty of.

Emma's ass was as perfect as the rest of her, popping up just enough from the ruler-straight line of her spine to be noticeable, perfectly matching the protuberance of her breasts from her slim body, two halves of an hourglass figure, but neither nearly as excessive as the porn stars and rap singers she found so distasteful in pop culture. The smug, snobby bitch. Tessa dug her fingers hard into what little meat there was on those skinny bones, knowing Emma would resent being manhandled in such a fashion, knowing she would love having an excuse to reintroduce Tessa to the whip, the riding crop, the paddle.

Tessa hated her and everything she stood for. Hated being forced to participate in the Hellfire Club's neverending sex games. Hated having cocaine snorted off her body and then feeling its buzz herself when this Queen or that kissed her. Hated performing stripteases on command, sometimes whenever she heard a particular song or when a specific word was said. Hated wearing a collar and chain with that special tag reading _If found, please return to the White Queen _so even if Emma wasn't holding the leash, everyone would know whose property she was. Hated licking Emma to orgasm to wake her up in the morning, fingering her to orgasm so she could get a good night's rest at dusk, hated pouring spirits down her own nude body for Emma's private wine-tasting parties, hated wearing butt plugs and vibrating panties under her clothes to liven up any day Emma deemed boring, hated being fucked with a strap-on when Emma needed to let off some steam, hated tasting Emma's last lover when she ate her out or even kissed her, hated being taken for walks on her hands and knees around the Massacheutetts Academy, hated filming Emma while she fucked that Firestar brat, hated masturbating for Emma's amusement during long trips, and most of all, she hated when Emma said something smutty like-

"I think my back's all done dear." Emma turned on her side, hand on her hip. Tessa finally saw color on her-blood-red nipples and sapphire-blue eyes. And, down below, between her legs. A gathering of red arousal below a tuft of white hair, shaved into the shape of a diamond. Last month, it'd been the Hellfire Club's sigil. The month before that, it'd been Emma's initials. For Tessa's birthday, it'd been her name in cursive. Tessa could've blushed, remembering what she'd eaten her birthday cake off of. "Time to massage my front."

No matter how much she didn't want to, Tessa would just have to grin and bear it. She didn't like it, but it was the mission.

Suddenly, the alarm rang. Tessa's head swiveled to a nearby console to see security footage of the X-Men running down the hall.

"Can't anyone build a death-trap that will hold someone for longer than an episode of Murphy fucking Brown?" she demanded, livid.

* * *

The X-Men ran through the corridors of the ship, each cavalierly dealing with whatever internal defenses they were best-suited for, all in well-trained unison. Scott was the only one who spoke, calling out as he blew away a turret with his optic blast.

"Good work getting loose, Storm! I know Emma designed the system to force you to function at the level of an infant, but she must not've counted on you having the coordination of a young girl, even at six months old!"

For a moment, the blast of lightning Storm was using to melt through a steel door burned a little brighter. "Yes. She must not have known."

Scott dodged a whirling buzzsaw and casually decapitated it with a flick of his visor. For him, it was like a quick session in the Danger Room. Not even at Level 5! "It must've taken intense concentration to build up your control. I can't imagine the pressure you were under—not just that, but having to force yourself to relax your body to pick the lock. To say nothing of the raw force of will it would take to get to your lockpicks in the first place! And with your claustrophobia! Imagine, all that tension, that unbearable pressure as you tried to escape, then finally—release!" He quickly took in the other X-Men, and couldn't help but think of them as struggling when compared to how he and Ororo were dealing with the security. "All of you could stand to take a lesson from Storm's book!"

Logan went "Ha!", but aside from that, Beast, Nightcrawler, and Wolverine are listened to Jean's quick psychic communication. They had all smelled or otherwise sensed exactly how Storm had gotten free, and all of them had decided to pretend it had never happened. Helped along by Jean's mental threat to give them a fanatical obsession with child beauty pageants if they so much as wrote it down in their diaries. To Scott, she sent a quick reminder that Ororo was too modest to appreciate such excessive praise.

All of which left Colossus the odd man out, as he slapped Ororo on the back in a rare moment of peace. "Da, very good work, Storm. I wouldn't mind you teaching me how to do that!"

He would never understand why the others all glared at him for wanting to know more about picking locks, but then, he found many Westerners quite odd.

* * *

In the short time they had available before the X-Men arrived at their doorstep, Emma elected not to dress, always having held that unabashed nudity was preferable to hastily-dressed modesty (it was important to Tessa's cover that she not complain). She roved from one screen on the monitor bank to another. The only thing that changed was which location the X-Men were rampaging through, virtually unchallenged.

"Blast!" Emma swore. "The Trapster assured me that these defenses would be enough to waylay the Hulk!" She turns to Tessa with some of her serenity restored. "It just goes to show, never trust a man who has called himself Paste-Pot Pete, even for an instant."

"Shall we prepare for battle, mistress?"

Emma shook her head. "The X-Men's feeble brains I could easily overwhelm, if only they didn't have our wayward Black Queen with her. With the other fools distracting me, I would be easy prey for her admittedly wonderful psychic talent. She'd sweep aside all my mental defenses, invade the sanctum of my mind, penetrate deep into my core-!"

Even if she were wearing her usual corset, it would be hard for Tessa not to notice how hard Emma's nipples had become. "So we flee?"

Emma refocused on her, eyes piercing. "The Hellfire Club does not _flee_. We simply do not dignity vulgarly overpowered foes with a confrontation. Come, to the escape pod. We'll see how our favorite mutants do at escaping from an airship a mile off the ground." And, with trademark poise, Emma flipped up a glass shield and pressed a large red button. "Which is about to self-destruct."

Tessa had always wondered what that button did.

Abandoning her neatly-folded clothing in favor of a graceful, dignified stride to the far wall, Emma opened the hatch to the escape pod.

As enticing as the view of Emma was from behind, Tessa found it even harder not to notice that the pod only seated one. "Umm, mistress… where's my pod?"

Emma turned back with a beaming smile. "Don't be silly, dear. You'll sit on my lap."

* * *

The X-Men could've knocked down the reinforced door to the bridge with an optic blast from Cyclops, a burst of psychic power from Phoenix, or lightning bolt from Storm, but Scott thought Colossus breaking that door down with his bare hands sent the right signal. He hardly had to give the order; just looked at Piotr and then the door was a wadded tissue on the floor, just happening to be made of solid steel.

Across the room, Tessa and Emma were in what looked like a small booth, Emma naked and Tessa straddling her.

"I was wondering why she was so interested in Jean…" Kurt muttered, and then winced as Jean telekinetically pulled one of his furs out.

"It's time to pay the piper, 'your highness!'" Scott shouted, a dramatic finger pointed in Emma's direction, his other hand on his visor. The other X-Men were similarly ready to vaporize Emma where she stood.

Emma just looked at them, quite amused. "I think not. Not unless one of you knows how to pilot a ship made from black-market HYDRA technology!"

A moment later, Beast asked "Why is everyone looking at me?"

"And on that note…" Emma said smugly, pulling a lever. The door to the booth slammed shut, and then it just disappeared—only visible as a rapidly shrinking blur through the porthole in the door.

"Getting' real tired of that witch always having a card up her sleeve!" Logan growled, visibly struggling to retract his claws.

"Sheathe it, Wolverine, we've got bigger problems." Cyclops was staring at the countdown displayed on the control console. Two minutes. With the White Queen, he doubted it was how long until the microwave popcorn was ready. "Colossus, break the door Emma went through!"

"Da, comrade," Colossus replied, even as his metal fists clanged against the door.

When it went, it was instantly sucked into the airstream outside the ship, the turbulent wind whipping through the bridge. Cyclops fearlessly ran to the breach in the hull, looking down to see a distant canopy of jungle trees and volcanic rock. In the distance, Emma's escape pod had deployed parachutes.

Scott thought he might be able to sever them with a strategic optic blast, but dropping Emma Frost a couple hundred feet wouldn't help them get off the ship. Not to mention the Professor wouldn't approve; not in the slightest.

"Alright, Colossus, Wolverine, you two are too heavy for our fliers to carry, but you can survive the fall. You'll have to take the hard way down."

Wolverine looked down. It looked like a helluva long way, and him on the short side to begin with. "Sometimes havin' a mutant healing factor is a real bitch. Fuck it, I'm not gonna be the second asshole out the door." He jumped.

Piotr looked after Logan with worry. The Canadian still hadn't landed and he was up next.

Scott clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Colossus. I know exactly how much stress your body can take and a fall from this height is well within range. I've done the calculations in my head."

"Hope you remembered to carry the one," Kurt gibed. Colossus gave him a hard stare, while Scott didn't dignity him with one.

"I just hope I don't land on anything important… or anyone." With a deep breath, Colossus let himself fall through the hole.

Not even glancing after him, Scott faced Kurt and Ororo. "You're at bat. Nightcrawler, teleport straight down as far as you can. Storm can take it from there. Hopefully, it won't be too much strain on either of you."

Nightcrawler saluted smartly with his tail. "I trust you, bossman. And even if it doesn't work, I've always wanted to die under a beautiful woman."

Ororo punched him in the shoulders. "_If _we crash, that fur should make a soft landing for _me_."

"Even better, I like being on top."

"One minute," Scott said grimly.

Kurt put his arms around Ororo, quite gentlemanly despite his flirting, and they were gone in an inferno of black smoke. They reappeared in mid-air outside, weightless for an instant, before Nightcrawler teleported them lower still.

"Alright," Scott said, satisfied to only be addressing Jean and Hank. "Phoenix, you're going to have to float the other two of us down. Think you can manage it?"

"With my new powers? Certainly. In fact, I probably could've carried Logan too."

"Meh," Scott shrugged.

* * *

All of the Savage Lands could see the destruction of the strange visitor to their skies. It burst like a solid raincloud—first, lit up with lightning inside it like there would be found within a thunderhead, then abruptly expanding into an orange and black cloud, many times its old size. Then it rained fire.

For Zaladane, it was the last argument she needed. The People of the Sun, who had grudgingly gathered for what many were sure was another false prophecy, now watched in awe the ship of the outsiders broke open. Like an egg watching into something wondrous.

"You see!" Zaladane cried shrilly, beyond reason, beyond sanity, her voice echoing through the vast courtyard. Only a tiny section of it was filled with what remained of the Sun Empire, but that just meant all who ever present heard her voice. "Garokk awakes! Garokk commends to us a vessel! Let us march, my acolytes! Let us accept our god's blessing! Let us restore the City of the Sun God to all former glory!"

The cheer that went up seemed to never end, transitioning seamlessly into the echo of their boots upon the stone tile, as they marched into the Savage Land.


	4. Happy Landings

Karl Lykos lived a solitary life.

He had always been different. For as long as he could remember, he had never known thirst or hunger. All he knew was a kind of emptiness, and the sweet fulfillment that came from draining life-energy.

At first, it had not been so bad. He could buy live bait from any fishing store, and that would sate his appetite. He actually saved money on groceries. Although he knew he was like those _people _that were always on TV—the superheroes, the supervillains, the _mutants_—he was able to keep it under control. He didn't want to be special. He didn't want to be anything. He was happy being Karl Lykos.

Then he met Tanya and he had a wife. The beginnings of a family. Only then, when he was at his happiest, did he have the misfortune of meeting a mutant. Of being unable to resist draining that X-gene life-energy, so much greater than even an elephant! And then, what the power had unlocked—the dark side of his mind—the reptilian center—_the monster_—

He fled, both as Karl Lykos trying to flee from the mutants who were seemingly everywhere, free drugs to a junkie, and as the monster, running from the cops, the Avengers, the Defenders, SHIELD. Until finally, he wound up in the Savage Land. No mutants. Barely any people. Here, he could be Karl Lykos again, surviving on the flora and fauna of this ancient place. It was lonely, it was dangerous—it was home.

And then came the morning of the airship, when he felt a queasily familiar stirring—the pull of mutant power, far in the distance, but still so close he felt like he could reach out and…

Karl jerked out of bed, his flailing body knocking aside the few possessions he had populated his cave home with. It had been so long… and he'd had such power… _Karl looked around, trying to center him. He was Karl Lykos, Karl Lykos… _and he was living in a hole in the ground, not the house he'd once owned, not even the dorm room he'd shared… a fucking hole! Why did he have to suffer this way, while every other mutant got to frolic around in skintight spandex, playing baseball or hanging around with naked blue women? Why should he live as a hermit to spare them?

_Because it was his burden, of course, his alone to bear, everyone else had their own, this was his, they would leave, everyone always left, he just had to wait them out…_

No! NO! No more waiting! Don't let them slip away! Don't keep on subsisting on bait worms like a fucking fish! Either put yourself out of your misery or damn well claim your birthright! You're a mutant! This is what you were meant for! Embrace it! Take what's yours!

Karl Lykos found himself pulled to his feet like he was held by invisible rope. The smallest iota of mutant radiation was in the air, and he could already feel the irresistible transformation beginning. He wanted more. So much more. And as he stalked in the direction of that invisible pull, he knew he would get it.

He was Karl Lykos.

But he was also something else.

* * *

"No! _Nein! _Bad dino!" Taking hold of the ankylosaurus's neck, Dr. Elsa rubbed the dinosaur's nose in the mess it had made on the carpet, painstakingly salvaged from the old science lab so she wouldn't have to worry about splinters from the wooden floor. "We do not go number one in the house!"

Shanna had found the ankylosaurus as a pup after it was orphaned by a Rex attack. Although everyone had been enthusiastic about the idea of bringing up a dinosaur pet, Elsa was sure she was the only one who bothered to discipline him. It wasn't much for a renowned scientist, the toast of Project Vengeance, but studying whether a dinosaur had enough brains to be domesticated was better than wallowing in hunting and fighting like the others did. It wasn't even her discipline, though-what she wouldn't give for a few beakers and a proper microscope!

"Are you busy, Mother?" Shanna asked, entering silently as always-this time through a ventilation hole high up to the roof. She crept along the rafters as Elsa shooed Earl Sinclair the ankylosaurus (she would never understand American pop culture references).

"No, Shanna. I am not busy at all."

She probably should've been somewhat perturbed to hear Shanna once again refer to her as Mother, a habit she'd started after reading some books that informed her of the concept of parents. But then, part of her genetic stock was Dr. Elsa's DNA. So Elsa figured it was more or less accurate.

Shanna nodded and leapt down, executing a flawless landing in a crouch that she rose from immediately. If it had happened at any gymnastics competition in the world, Elsa would've applauded. But because it was Shanna, she only offered a tight smile in greeting.

"Mother," Shanna said, her flat voice displaying a touch of nervousness, "do men like it when you touch their phalluses?"

It was good to know, even after so many years learning about this place, that it could still surprise Elsa. But not at the moment. "Muh-muh-manual stimulation of the genitalia is often found pleasant by adult males. Why do you ask?" She surprised herself by how calmly she spoke her question.

"I touched Zar's phallus. After I asked him first. He seemed to enjoy-" Shanna gave Elsa a confidential look, "-reaching ejaculation, but then he excused himself and left. Did I do something wrong?"

"No, Shanna, I'm sure you excelled at it, as per usual." Elsa really wished the child development specialists had showed up.

"But in Doc's magazines, the manual stimulation leads to vaginal or anal intercourse, finishing in oral or mammary stimulation and _then _ejaculation." Shanna's hands were clasped behind her back like a schoolgirl who'd received poor marks on a test. "Are you sure I did nothing wrong?"

Elsa would've sworn if only she didn't want Shanna to pick up some very poor German. She'd told Doc to keep his magazines well-hidden. "Those magazines are not scientifically accurate!"

"They used poor research?" Shanna asked.

"In the extreme. There is much more to pleasing a male-and being pleased-than just ejaculation on the _brüste!"_

Shanna took her hands out from behind her back. She held a dinosaur tooth-the flat end indicating a herbivore, Elsa noted-but its size and shape making it extremely suggestive within the context of the conversation.

"Mother, would you show me how to please?" Shanna's smile was just nervous enough to be irresistible. "And be pleased?"

* * *

Logan had been through a lot of things that should've killed him over the years. Falls were a big one. No matter how hard he tried to keep his feet on the ground, bad guys always put their offices in towers or skyscrapers or cliffs or fucking Heli-Carriers, and it was always "Hey, Wolvie, you don't _need _a parachute, do ya?"

Well, he'd fucking well like one, thanks!

As far as bungee-jumping without the cord went, this one wasn't so bad. He didn't land on jagged rocks or lava or anything like that. He went sideways as best he could, trying to glide some so he'd hit at an angle instead of dead-on. Ended up plowing through enough palm trees to garden Sunset Boulevard. Then he pushed up grass, a bunch of it. Finally, he stopped, only some of his skin scraped off, the rest covered in a thick layer of dirt.

"Watch that first step, Piotr," he coughed out, most of the dust he'd kicked up seeming to have ended up in his lungs. "It's a doozy."

Still, just because he looked like the Phantom of the Opera with no damn mask was no reason to lollygag around. He picked himself up, dusted himself off as best he could, and looked around. The Savage Land. Best damn jungle in the world. No bulldozers, no highways, no condos full of homeowners getting upset when they put free food in the raccoons' hunting ground and the damn raccoons went and ate it. Just nature. Red in tooth and claw, just the way he liked it.

And, aw hell, he could say it. "I fucking love dinosaurs," Logan said to himself. Long as he was here, it'd be damn fun getting into a ruckus with a T-rex or a Stegosaurus or whatever this fucked-up place had on tap. In fact, now that his senses were getting acclimated to all the prehistoric spoor, he thought he had a fight in the making on his scope.

Half-mile away, human boy was facing down a pair of big cats that made your average puma look like a funny video on the internet. Logan ran—luckily, his face had broken his fall, so his legs had gotten the best of it. In just a handful of seconds he was there, watching nature's stand-off. Boy was a native; wasn't shitting himself or crying for his mommy, just holding a knife up to put a hurting on 'fore he checked out. Logan could respect that. The hombre wasn't a city boy; maybe he cheated on his taxes, maybe he told his momma she looked fat, but the way Logan saw it, he'd earned getting taken off the menu the moment he pulled the knife instead of running for it.

Good-looking kid too. Nice head of hair, long runner's legs, long runner's arms, face like that goober in the movie with the tiger and the raft who Kitty seemed half in love with. And the girly had good taste in men, 'cept for hanging out with Logan all damn day. Kid that pretty probably had a girl back home. Girl didn't deserve to cry over her cute boyfriend, just cuz he was dumb enough to walk downwind of two starving kitties.

The sabretooths knew it was over; they hadn't noticed Logan yet, so they were just savorin' the boy's fear. Growling at him, sniffing at him, feinting at pouncing. They were trying to break him down, make 'im piss himself so he wouldn't even defend himself, just play dead until they made it permanent. A nice, easy kill out of nice, easy prey. Kid was giving as good as he got, though, snaking his knife out, barking out at the sabretooths like they should be afraid of him, buying himself time.

Logan popped his claws. _Snikt. _The cats heard it. So did the boy. Both were confused, not afraid.

The Savage Land didn't know what adamantium sounded like. Wolverine figured it was high time everyone learned.

* * *

Gleaming teeth gnashed and snapped on soft flesh. Clawed fingers raked over skin to leave scarlet lines. Voices rose in agonized exertion—grunting, groaning, moaning, even laughing. After long minutes of bodies surging against each other, wrestling for supremacy until one was overwhelmed and forced down to the ground, finally came the moment of impalement. Again and again, the loser was penetrated, the hard strikes coming faster and faster until finally they was a spray of fluids, a scream of defeat that trailed down to a whisper of acceptance.

Dr. Elsa lay on her back upon her bedcovers, trying to catch her breath as Shanna knelt over her, not even winded, the dinosaur tooth in her hand wetly dripping.

"That was most informative, Mother. I sense you're tired, though." This was an understatement in the extreme. Elsa had been hunted by dinosaurs almost since the war ended, and she'd never been this winded. "I will continue our research at a later date. For now, I will do independent study. Would now be an appropriate time for a kiss of mutual affection?"

"Yes, _mein Tochter… _oh yes."

Shanna leaned down and, showing considerably more nervousness than she had in the past hour, placed her lips against Elsa's cheek, held them there, and then withdrew.

"How was that?" she asked softly.

"Most satisfactory, Shanna. As was… everything else."

Shanna beamed as best she could through the poker face she customarily wore, and then moved away, pausing only to retrieve her top and bottom from the floor. She'd heard an explosion in the sky that she would've investigated earlier, but Dr. Elsa's head had been between her legs and it was so… educational.

She took the dinosaur tooth with her.

Long minutes later, Elsa found it in herself to stagger out of her hut. Half her hair was frazzled out of its bun, her thick glasses were askew, and her usually tightly-buttoned clothes now showed enough skin to start a beach party.

Doc, who'd resolved to start going on at least one walk each day, happened to catch her on the way to the bathing pond. One look at her and—well, that had his dirty mags beat all hollow.

"Fraulein? You okay?"

Dr. Elsa looked at him as if she were just noticing the existence of other people on planet Earth for the first time. Slowly, she adjusted her glasses. "I believe my hypothesis regarding Shanna's mating cycle was most correct."

* * *

Gently wafting down on its three parachutes, the escape pod landed in a jungle clearing of dirt and palm fronds, the impact only rough enough to jostle the martini Emma was sipping. That was still far too much for her exacting standards. She'd spilled a little on her nude body, and just knew she could expect her skin to be sticky later.

"As if it weren't enough that this pod is as cramped as a refrigerator box, _now _the shock absorbers submit us to _that_. Honestly, I should have sprung for the deluxe model. I thought I'd never even use the escape pod, that it was just for peace of mind, but now here we are." When the hatch popped open, a roll of carpet automatically rolled out for Emma's bare feet to walk on. She stepped out into the jungle and stretched. "It just goes to show, never indulge in penny-pinching. Anything worth buying is worth buying expensively."

Tessa followed her out, wondering if she should prepare Emma another martini, then no longer wondering when Emma tossed the martini glass aside. Emma turned back around to Tessa. The spy noted with some ruefulness that Emma's nipples, so hardened by the thought of sparring with Jean, were quite soft despite the many minutes she'd spent with Tessa in her lap.

Emma gestured to her. "Well, strip. No sense being modest now that you've ridden me down from a mile up like a reenactment of Dr. Strangelove."

Tessa could've blushed. She knew Emma had been interrupted before they'd finished their last quickie, but she'd calculated only a forty-two percent chance that Emma would be a big enough slut to insist they continue. "You want me to take my clothes off?"

Emma saw what she was thinking, even with her telepathic powers not really working on Tessa. "Oh, you poor bitch. You really are gagging for it, aren't you?" Walking up to Tessa, she pinched her cheek like a favorite niece. "Later, my darling, I promise you. I know how that quim of yours burns for me, but out here? When some beastly lizard could devour us instead of me devouring you? No, that simply wouldn't do. I merely need your clothes to avoid ruining my skin tone in this abhorrent sun."

"But…" Tessa stammered. She'd only calculated a twelve percent chance that Emma would have any desire to put clothes on. "What will I wear?"

"You have on underwear, don't you?"

"No!"

Emma grinned widely. "Good girl. Come now, off with them. It isn't anything I haven't seen before… and felt… and licked… and ejaculated upon…"

Tessa unzipped her catsuit before Emma could continue. She was only slightly gratified by how Emma stopped to stare as more and more of her body was revealed. The deepening curve of her cleavage, then the long unbroken stretch of her abdomen, finally the pubic hair that'd been shaved into a triangle—half a diamond. She could've kept going with the zipper; it went all the way around, up her buttocks to the small of her back, so that judicious use of the two sliders could expose any number of things—and had. But she stopped at her perineum and simply stepped out of the catsuit, handing it to Emma with as little rancor as possible.

"Thank you, my sweetest." Emma's smile was subtle but sincere as looked over Tessa's naked body. "Have you lost weight?"

This time Tessa did blush. Flattered.

Emma pushed her feet into the snug rubber that lined the leather suit's inside, careful and dignified. Once finished, she rolled the legs up. The leather creaked as it stretched around her legs, and Emma frowned at the thought that her thighs were bigger than Tessa's. Of course, then she was pulling the leather up against her crotch. Usually, underwear would prevent any embarrassment, but circumstances had dictated that there was nothing to prevent her from feeling the leather… body-warm from Tessa's flesh… cushioning her groin. It felt right as rain.

Next came her arms, worked easily into the tight black leather—not her preferred color, of course, but it _was _after Labor Day and she might as well indulge that idiotic custom for once. Her hands fit easily into the sleeves and then into the gloves at the end, the fitting pulling the suit tight over her body—and even tighter over her crotch. She had been thinking of letting sex-starved little Tessa wiggle on the hook for a while, just for fun, but now she thought that as soon as she got her alone—well, the catsuit was giving her all kinds of naughty thoughts.

Lastly, she pulled the zipper up. It went ably up her pubis and stomach, but stopped at her breasts. Pulling the zipper up naturally squeezed her breasts in—quite a sight, but they didn't go quite all the way, certainly not enough for the zipper to go up to her neck as intended. Emma cupped her breasts, wiggling them about to try and shimmy them into place, but that just pushed the zipper down further. Emma pulled hard on the zipper, trying to force it over her cleavage, but the thing would sooner bust then obey. Her breasts were simply too large to fit into Tessa's catsuit.

"Of all the problems to have…!" Emma rued, then looked over at Tessa to gauge how she looked, the zipper at her solar plexus with its weight just barely holding the higher two halves of the suit close enough to conceal her breasts. At least, some of them.

Judging by the wide-eyed and somewhat flustered look of schoolgirl lust Tessa was giving her, the effect was perhaps even better than it would be if she'd been able to get the zipper all the way up. The skintight leather hugged her curves even tighter than it had Tessa's, all but her cleavage, which was for the most part gloriously unencumbered. Classy enough for a Savage Land.

Emma stepped into Tessa's black high heels, completing the picture. "Well, this will do for now. Perhaps they'll have something more fitting at our destination."

"We're going somewhere?" Tessa asked.

"Of course, dear. You didn't think I'd fly all this way _simply _to have Jean Grey all to myself, did you? Not with gas prices being what they are." Emma shook her head, tutting. "No, we're killing two birds with one stone. By the end of our little safari, Ms. Grey will be mine and the Hellfire Club will be more powerful than ever." She held her hand over her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun. "Ah, I think I see our vacation spot. Come along, Tessa. The sooner we get there, the sooner you can pleasure me."

They set off. In the distance, the building Emma had spotted beckoned, its only motion the moth-eaten Nazi banners fluttering in the breeze.

* * *

Piotr was going to be sick.

Currently, he was in a crater in the ground. A few minutes ago, he had been on a ship a mile up in the air. He had taken the quickest way down. Scott had been right—the fall hadn't killed him. He'd felt it, but it hadn't even hurt. No, what got to him was the nausea. Dropping like he was on a roller-coaster stacked atop ten other roller-coasters, tossing and turning in the air, getting buffeted by deltas and air currents… it was a wonder he hadn't vomited.

His stomach felt like it would never settle, migrated to somewhere in his throat, and so he stayed flat on his back as the dust settled. Since none of the dinosaurs he'd seen on the way down had showed up with intent to eat him, he remained lying there. He took deep breaths. He exhaled fully. After several nauseous minutes, he felt his stomach be reeled in to its proper location. Once more, he could breathe without smelling bile.

Now feeling aches and pains, like he'd slept on his back wrong, Piotr sat up and assessed his situation. He could move all his limbs without any more pain than he felt keeping them still; his metal bones hadn't broken. Dented, maybe. His uniform, though, was a lost cause. Hitting the ground as he had, he must've busted through multiple layers of bedrock inches below the surface. That, coupled with his friction against the dirt, had rent the costume like a cat at curtains. All that was left were a few stripes and, thankfully, his boots. Even his shorts were gone, all that was left his utility belt. The Little Colossus, as he'd heard young Katya call it during some ribald speculation he sincerely wished he hadn't overheard, was lying in the dirt.

He'd needed to find some sort of pant-object before the others found him. Perhaps a grass-skirt? How did those Hawaiian girls make those? Before he could ponder it, he noticed there was a woman on the lip of his crater, crouched the way some of his more animalistic friends did—shoulders low, haunches up. A very pretty woman, at that.

Piotr covered herself as best he could, but even with both hands, it was difficult. His penis couldn't very well dwindle when it was made of metal. "Hello there. I am… I am Piotr Rasputin, of the X-Men."

She was staring at him intently. A bit unnervingly, actually. Her blue eyes seemed to dig into him, measuring him out in a million different ways. "I am Shanna."

"My pleasure to meet you, Shanna. I apologize for my state of dress…" Piotr tried to get to his feet, but found the ground sliding away under him. Metal could be very slippery. He dropped onto his back.

In a flash, Shanna had scurried down the crater to him. She held out her hand. "May I touch you?"

She meant to help him up? Piotr doubted she would do much good, but decided to spare her feelings. Hoping his left forearm was enough to cover himself, he offered his right hand. "Thank you, Miss Shanna."

She brushed it aside and grabbed onto his manhood quite firmly. Piotr could do little more than let out a surprised groan.

* * *

Shanna felt hot.

It'd started a few weeks ago. She'd begun to feel a sort of twitch between her legs in idle moments, a spark, a slickness. It was most especially present when she woke up, not remembering her dreams. Then it'd begun to haunt her waking hours too, most especially when she was with Zar. Before, she'd known that he fancied her, but it more amused her than anything else, much like some of the soldiers' clumsy attempts to see her naked. She enjoyed playing dumb to their intentions, once Dr. Elsa had explained what they were after. But when the heat started, she couldn't help wondering at the jokes. She had never had a 'good hard reaming' as Private Marshall said when he thought she couldn't hear. What if she liked it? What if she _really _liked it?

She also began to notice Zar's body—long, lean, and his face… warm and cute. She did like cute. She might not fawn over it, like the soldiers did when they spotted the odd koala bear, but she could appreciate it. It seemed the important bits were between the legs, but she would much rather look at Zar's face while those parts did their work than any other's.

Now she saw 'Piotr' and the heat flushed through her. It'd simmered when she was with Zar, boiled over when she was with Dr. Elsa, but now… he was so big… and his metal gleamed so beautifully… and he was so _big…_

As soon as he gave permission, she touched his cock. It was just as hard to the touch as it looked, even harder than the dinosaur tooth had been. And it was cold. As cool and smooth as the bedsheets had been when Dr. Elsa had taught her pleasure. She rubbed it, but his face remained more confused than anything else. It didn't change the way Zar's had. She rubbed harder, squeezed harder, then with all her might. It must've been hard for a man of metal to feel her through such thick skin.

Gratifyingly, he moaned as she gripped his cock like she meant to crush it. His mouth opened in even-more-shocked surprise. She felt an urge to kiss him that lingered on, but knew there was no way he could feel the same bites and licks she had used on Elsa through his metal skin. That was fine by her. She didn't think she had the hang of kissing yet.

But it didn't matter. All that mattered was his cock, long and thick and so big Shanna's hand could barely fit around it. It felt like one of the big metal pipes that the soldiers had salvaged for their aqueduct system, only contoured and even veined like Zar's had been. And it was throbbing, throbbing metal, alive and yet cool and chilling. Maybe it could put out her fire.

She reached down with her other hand and felt his scrotum—something she had meant to do with Zar, but never managed before his ejaculation. Piotr's balls, obviously, were metal. Great big ball bearings rolling around in a curved chrome container. She squeezed them equally hard and Piotr pounded in her palm. She thought she could smell his arousal, that male musk, even through the armor. Her nostrils flared as she breathed it in. She wouldn't wait any longer. She wouldn't let him flee as Zar had. She would trap him inside her.

Piotr's cock was already standing up like a stake pointed out of the ground, but Shanna held it in place anyway as she parted her legs, flashing her reddening pussy under her loincloth, and crouched down onto that metal pole she hadn't been able to take her eyes off since it dropped out of the sky.

* * *

Piotr decided he was wrong. He hadn't survived the fall. He had died and gone to heaven.

* * *

It hurt, just a little, just enough to excite her, like first blood in a fight. With all her physical exertion, Shanna's hymen had been destroyed long ago. Dr. Elsa's enthusiastic use of the dinosaur tooth had proven it. But still, Shanna was dwarfed by the man, and those proportions continued to their sex organs. Shanna felt a little like she was trying to swallow a cucumber, taking him inside her.

Then she took the first inch and it felt good. So good. The only thing that could possibly feel better would be _more. _

Dr. Elsa had said things to her during their lesson, whispered things in German, but Shanna had been much too busy to translate. Still, she thought she knew what men would want to hear. "I like your cock," she said, sinking onto Piotr, feeling him sink into her. "I liked feeling it in my hand." She couldn't stop a sharp intake of breath from interrupting her. He felt so big inside her that it was impossible to get used to. She kept feeling his _size. _"I like feeling it in my cunt. I _love _feeling it in my cunt."

"_Boize moi_!" Piotr gasped. He had locked his hands onto his thighs as she took him inside herself, worried that if he tried to touch her, his great strength would cause her harm, but he couldn't resist anymore. He grabbed onto her wide hips, squeezing hard enough to bruise even with the hasty care he took.

It had been months since he'd had a woman, not since Russia, where he'd always been shy and awkward, but at least he spoke the language. With American women, he was constantly flustered, constantly on edge. He had heard stories of Western promiscuity, but had known better than to expect a woman would just rub up against him and demand his penis, large as it was. But _this_—yes, this was just fine. The only problem was the torture of only a few inches of his cock knowing her wonderful tightness, while the rest of him throbbed in misery. He needed more of her… all of her.

"If you love feeling me inside you," he gasped hoarsely, "this will be an answer to your prayers!"

He stood up, shifting one giant hand to clasp Shanna's ample buttocks, easily supporting her with those five thick fingers, while his other hand splayed on her back, stretching from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. He forced those voluptuous breasts against his face; even if all he could feel was their warmth, it was still more than enough. And he let gravity pull Shanna down his upthrust cock, his huge chest rumbling with contentment as he felt her fit him like a glove.

Shanna, for her part, clasped her arms around Piotr's thick back, as if trying to hold herself up from falling further into that deep impalement. But whatever urge of self-preservation had caused her to try, she overcame it. Her hands only streaked down his metal back as she took inch after inch, finding herself stretched further and painfully further. "I like it!" she declared, wiggling her hips to try and get him inside her faster. It worked.

Shanna had faced raptors that towered over her, T-rexes that could step on her, brontosauruses that didn't even notice her. For the first time, she felt small. Powerless. Overwhelmed. For some reason, she didn't care. Perhaps it was her own sense of self, her instinctual knowledge that she could handle him if it came to that. Perhaps it was the sense of kindness and care Piotr radiated, even as he entered. Perhaps it was just that she loved the feeling of her tight cunt stretching to take a throbbing ten-inch dick.

"I like it!" Shanna said again as Piotr bucked his huge thighs, relentlessly stabbing himself higher into Shanna's sucking pussy. It was all she could say, all she could think. He was so big and cool and her pussy was so tight and hot. It was a perfect match. She looked down, mouth hanging open, to watch in disbelief and a little triumph as her pussy lips stretched to hide his gleaming cock within. It was disappearing at a steady rate; she was devouring him bite by bite. The pain was intense, but the pleasure was well worth it. Soon, she'd have all of him. Every last bit.

"I like it too," Piotr said slowly, feeling compelled to say something after Shanna had repeated her simple litany half-a-dozen times. "I like your tight cunt and big tits and—and—" That had about exhausted his vocabulary for the moment. "Your pretty hair!"

Hearing his sweet words, Shanna also felt compelled to respond in kind. "You're so big!" she said, her monotone voice dropping away to leave a sense of wonder. "You're enormous. I can't believe how big you are. I can feel how big you are but I can't believe it." She would've wrapped her legs around him, as she had to Dr. Elsa several times to most pleasurable effect, but she didn't seem to be able to move them at the moment.

His hands returned to her buttocks, squeezing so hard they would've caused her pain if she hadn't been genetically engineered, jerking her up and down on the last few inches of his cock. They wouldn't go in, the size and length too much even for Shanna, but she had a great feel of fun trying. Piotr held back just enough to keep the pain manageable and the pleasure overwhelming.

She let go entirely, arms spread, dropping back into his grip, her torso dipping backwards and her hair almost reaching the ground. Every inch of her sheath seemed to be stretched around Piotr. Her cunt was burning as it never had before. When she looked up, she could see her reflection in Piotr's broad, argent chest—hair wild, eyes dilated, one breast slipping out of her top to show an achingly hard nipple. Every inch of her sexual and wild. Dr. Elsa at her moment of orgasm, all three of them, was just a pale reflection of Shanna at that moment. Even to her own eyes, she looked like a wild animal. She looked like a wanton whore. She looked… satisfied.

"Come," she ordered, surprising to hear the level of desperation in her once-cool voice. She sounded like a different person. "Come inside me!"

And those four words were enough to snap Piotr out of it. He remembered his private talk with the Professor, the concern about staying in metal in his everyday life, the chance of causing damage unintentionally. Even during lovemaking to a woman of superstrength. He was a man of steel, yes, but she might be a woman of Kleenex. The Professor had gently suggested that he attempt masturbation in his metal form to see how powerful his ejaculation would be, but no matter how understanding Xavier had been, Piotr couldn't bear the thought of having to explain some orgasmic damage to his room. Now, he remembered he had no way to know what would happen if he came in Shanna.

Desperately, he forced himself to downshift back to flesh. His body resisted him, but he was too experienced at his transformation not to have his way. In an instant, he was skin and muscle once more.

"No!" Shanna cried suddenly, opening her eyes to find her orgasm slipping away. Piotr's change had taken at least an inch off his cock, and now he could bury it balls-deep in Shanna. She trembled with pleasure, even as she rued the mixture of hot and cold that she had found so pleasurable. His ordinary flesh was warm, too warm, rubbing against her with great friction, making her feverish and humid. Before she'd been in a sauna, now she was in a stove. It was too much. Too hot. She needed more time to get used to this.

But it was time she didn't have. Piotr had been able to stay hard for so long because his metal skin decreased his sensitivity. Suddenly, feeling his bare cock being squeezed tightly within Shanna, every inch of him lovingly embraced, Piotr could not hold back. It was all he could do to keep standing as his load exploded from deep within him, to deep within Shanna.

With fat, steady gulps he spurted into Shanna, filling her almost enough to finish her off. But the sticky, fluid feeling was similarly too new for Shanna to take in. She panted away her ecstasy as Piotr slowly worked himself out of Shanna, gasping hotly as his cock finally emerged to slap wetly against his thigh. A dumb smile covered his face as he set Shanna down and then succumbed to his own exhaustion. Lying back against the crater walls and sighing happily.

A moment later, he opened his eyes to look at Shanna. She had adjusted her top to cover herself once more.

"Was that alright?" he asked bashfully, somewhat embarrassed now to have changed in mid-stream despite her wishes. Still, it couldn't have made that much of a difference, could it?

"I expected as much," Shanna offered noncommittally. She was considering using the dinosaur tooth, but the strange and not unpleasant feel of his sap inside her was too strange and new to transition into pleasure. Already, the great ecstasy she'd been building to was fading to fond memory. She needed someone else to help her find it, just as Dr. Elsa had helped her after the unsatisfactory episode with Zar. "Do you have any friends?"

"Yes. Quite a few, in fact. Do you have somewhere we could all meet up? A home, or village?"

Shanna nodded. She didn't trust this outsider with the location of the fortress, not yet, but she could take him to the Fall People. They would be far more hospitable anyway. And perhaps one of those friends would be suitable to quell the heat that she could feel rising within her again.


	5. Comings And Goings At The North Pole

Despite the distance, Jean was able to keep the team in psychic communication. They all agreed the village was their best bet. Scott, Jean, and Hank arrived to find Logan waiting for them, trying out the local brew.

The village was a bustling metropolis, just in miniature. There were about twenty adobe huts and many people who slept on the ground, for no reason Scott could discern. Some fenced-in enclosures held the local herds, although a few were empty as the shepherds took them for fresh grazing. 'Town square' was a great clearing with the grass stomped flat, surrounding a well. Even now, people were lined up to drop their bucket down and get back their water. Off to the sides, one tribesman had recently sheared his sheep and was now offering woven blankets for trade, while a woman was selling goat milk in earthen jars. There weren't many takers, though. Most of the attention was on Wolverine, in his strange yellow and blue garb, and the adamantium claws he showed off at every opportunity.

"Yeah, happened to save the local big wig's son, so 'his Kaaness' put me up. We're having a feast. You're all invited." Logan took another gulp from his wineskin. "By the way, 'fore I forget…"

Moving fast, he grabbed Scott by the lapels, swung him around over a low fence, and dropped him into the local pigpen. Scott landed on his back in the muck and sank a good few inches. He was up with fists clenched in a second.

"You wanna explain yourself, mister!?"

"Just always held that a good leader should never ask a soldier to do something he wouldn't do himself. Seein' as how I had to hit every tree and branch on the way down 'fore landing with my snout in the dirt, I knew you wouldn't feel right just floating down like a feather thanks to Jeannie. No need ta thank me, slim, just helpin' out."

Scott's hand twitched toward his visor, but Jean stepped between him and Logan. "Alright, that's enough! Logan, if you've got that out of your system, maybe you could ask the Kaaness—"

"Kaa," Logan corrected snidely.

"_Kaa_, where there's someplace we can bathe. It was a long walk; we're all sweaty and gross."

"Speak for yourself," Kurt said, dropping down into the conversation on his tail just to show off.

* * *

Storm and Nightcrawler had landed on the opposite side of the village from Jean's detachment, Kurt winded from teleporting and Storm exhausted from carrying him. They sat back on the white boulders they'd landed among, catching their breath. Storm summoned a light shower to cool them off, and Kurt stuck his tongue out to catch the quenching water. When he stopped to wipe at his face, Ororo knew something was off.

"Ororo," he said seriously, "would you like to talk about it?" She said nothing, though he didn't know if she hadn't heard him or was ignoring him. "What happened when you broke free. Scott and Piotr may not know, but the rest of us have caught on. Obviously, none of us are going to gossip or anything—"

"No, I don't want to talk about it." Ororo stood, the rainfall ending.

"Okay. That's fine. But, apropos of nothing, sometimes I feel things, even when it might seem strange or inappropriate. Remember last month, when Mystique had me chained up? I have to admit, part of me found it a little…" He bobbed his head. "What's the harm? It's not like she's my sister or anything." Kurt stopped, frowning. "Actually, my foster sister would be another case in point… whoa, I am _weird_."

"You're German," Ororo replied.

"That too. My point is—" Kurt paused to wring his tail out. "It's not weird to like something that's outside your comfort zone. It happens to everyone. Maybe, now that it's happened, you can learn something about yourself you didn't know before."

Ororo rubbed the moisture into her skin, thinking. She'd never considered it before—but her costume was rather skimpy. "Thank you, Kurt, I—"

Then she heard Jean's telepathic broadcast and learned of the long walk ahead of her.

* * *

While Scott tried to think of a way to explain to the Kaa why he was covered in mud, Jean quietly detached herself from the group and walked to the outskirts of town, where Piotr and Shanna had arrived at the treeline. She wondered if Piotr had walked the entire way with his hands cupping his penis.

"You two crazy kids," she said good-naturedly, already enjoying the thought of perusing their memories later. But, as prim, proper Jean Grey, of course she was nice enough to repair Piotr's costume without being asked.

"Thank you, Phoenix." Piotr moved his arms out in a stretch. Apparently he had preserved his modesty from all the voyeuristic trees and rocks on the way there.

"Don't mention it. Who's your friend?" Jean smiled at Shanna, eying the tanned animal skins straining over her chest and curtaining her genitals. "And what's she got in her pouch?"

Shanna clutched the hidden dinosaur tooth protectively as Piotr explained "This is Shanna. Honestly, we just met…"

"And already you're comfortable taking long walks in the nude. Scott and I still aren't at that stage. Piotr, you dog you."

Piotr blushed, while Jean turned away to get back to the village. Shanna could wait. Judging from the neurons firing away in her noggin, the prospect she'd entertained upon seeing Jean in skintight spandex wouldn't be dismissed anytime soon.

* * *

As the Kaa explained it, most of the tribe washed either in the bathhouse, or when that was full, down at the nearby lake. As neither were in use at mid-day, his honored guests would have their privacy. Scott quickly declared that the women would have their choice of them, while he and the other men would bathe in the other location.

Ororo, guessing that she and Jean would be more comfortable bathing out in the open, voted for the lake. Jean agreed with her reasoning. Beast and Nightcrawler declined a soak, not wanting to ruin the feast with the scent of wet dog for hours afterward.

"Then please," the Kaa said, nodding agreeably, "enjoy our bathhouse and river as long as you want. You won't be disturbed, except by the village girls who will bring you clothes to replace those that are dirty or damaged."

The X-Men agreed readily.

* * *

As soon as she heard of the attack on him, Shanna sought Zar out. She found him in the medicine tent, having the healing woman apply paste to four long scratches down his chest.

"You're alright," she said in a commanding tone, as if she could order him to be so if he wasn't.

Zar waved off her concern. "I'm fine. The stranger fought off the beasts."

Shanna looked to his knife at his belt. It was brown with dried blood. "As did you."

"I only wounded the sabretooths. Logan was the one who killed them. It was a bad business. They were parents. They left a cub behind."

That was when Shanna heard the mewling. She looked to the corner and saw a tiger club no larger than her handspan, licking the gristle off a bone. "You took it with you?"

"I couldn't just leave him! He would've starved!"

Shanna rolled her eyes. The beasts had tried to kill him, now he was feeding one of them. If that was his wish, why didn't he cut out the middleman and simply feed himself to its parents?

She would never understand boys.

Then again—had she been so different? A child of the soldiers' enemies, dangerous, fearsome, and they'd taken her in.

"Where is this 'Logan'? I should thank him."

"He's in the bathhouse," Zar answered. "But if you want to hear about our fight, I could tell you. The healing woman would like to hear it too."

"Later, perhaps." Shanna was already walking by him, out the tent flap. "And you might want to clean up after your cub. He just marked the ceremonial rug."

* * *

The bathhouse was an expansive wooden building on the edge of the village, built in the shape of a circle. Water flowed in from an aqueduct, split into rings, and continued on its way. With sluice gates, one could fill up a segment of the ring, bathe in the accumulated water, then raise a sluice gate and fill the segment again with fresh, clean water. It was an ingenious system. Scott would've enjoyed its cleverness more if he didn't have to use it with Logan.

Wolverine sat at the opposite end of the building, though the offensive odor of the cigar he was smoking spread all the way to Cyclops's side. He didn't seem to see any need to wash his hair, or use the soaps the Fall People had generously provided. Scott tried to ignore this, but it grated on him.

"Still got your panties in a bunch about lookin' like a feeb in front of your girl?" Logan asked, blowing a smoke ring.

Scott was washing behind his ears. "I'd rather look like a 'feeb' than a tantrum-throwing kindergartener."

"That a height crack, bub?"

"It's whatever you want it to be."

Logan laughed to himself. "Boss-man wants to prove he's in the big chair, one more time. You wanna show off your dick, boy scout, all you gotta do is stand up."

Scott shot him a look. Sometimes, he didn't need the visor to see red. "Sometimes, I think the only reason you're on this team is because we put up with your childish shit-stirring."

"Yeah? That's cuz you need me. All the battle plans and training exercises in the world won't do ya a lick of good when you need a set of claws and someone won't feel guilty usin' 'em."

"The fact I don't feel the need to prove I've got a big dick is why you're still on this team, Logan. I count it as a personal merit that I'm able to dispassionately weigh your benefit to the team against your insubordination. _But don't push it._"

"Or what? You'll tell your girlfriend to stop making goo-goo eyes at me?"

Scott was considering how he could explain to the Kaa why there was an optic-blast-sized hole in the wall when Shanna walked into the bathhouse. Scott sank lower into his bath. Logan puffed on his cigar.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" Scott asked, trying to be both firm and meek at the same time. "We were told this would be a private bath."

"I'm sorry for the interruption," Shanna said, not sounding sorry. "I want…" She faltered, then removed her top. Her loincloth fell away quickly as well. "I wish for your seed. From both of you."

Scott thought his mouth was hanging open, but he wasn't sure.

"Well heck," Logan said, "this is certainly better than the breakfast buffet at Holiday Inn. We should stay here more often."

Shanna turned to Scott. "As you are leader, you may go first."

"I… I'm involved with someone. I'm with Jean."

"Would you like to go get her? I also enjoy women," Shanna said innocently. She took a step toward him, every bit of her jiggling.

"Lord have mercy," Logan mumbled.

"I can't. My seed—I'm only intimate with Jean. We don't do anything with other people."

Shanna's brow furrowed, trying to process this, before she swiveled to Logan. "You are the one who saved Zar. Would you have me, then?"

"Darlin', it'd be my pleasure. But I think we oughta let Slim leave first. Wouldn't wanna give him a complex."

Scott was already grabbing his towel.

* * *

Not far away from the village, there was a small upland lake. It was a private place, cut off from the Fall People's village by a thick stand of trees. To Storm—having sworn she could feel everyone's eyes on her after her embarrassing display—the setting was perfect. Here, she could regain her sense of self, with only her best friend Jean Grey for company. Only one little chore separated her from the serenity of washing the day's events away—something she'd been meaning to do for weeks now.

"Jean," she said, her voice even clearer and more ordered than usual from her wishing it to be so, "we must talk."

Jean spread her hands, returning her costume to its component molecules. As always, her beauty nearly took Ororo's breath away. Of all who she knew, Ororo thought Jean was the most beautiful—not a beauty that was erotic or sexual, but a purely aesthetic beauty, something of Jean's private charm and good nature wrapped around her nude form. That was one reason it had been so distressing to see her as the Black Queen—those classical good looks and wholesome beauty turned to the most decadent, disaffected effect imaginable. Like the Mona Lisa being turned into a pin-up.

Even with that creature supposedly vanquished, Ororo found her hard to forget—the way Jean stood suggested she knew exactly the effect she could have on people, and her enjoyment of it. While Ororo had never believed in the simple Madonna/whore dichotomy, she did admit that Jean had lost her innocence that day, and replaced it with something else.

"Come on, silly." With a wave of her hand, Jean dissolved Ororo's clothes as well. Ororo resisted the urge to cover herself with her hands. She had no more shame than Jean, though she liked to think there was a measure of dignity in place of exhibitionism.

Still, the water was clear as crystal, fed by streams flowing off the mighty escarpment that walled and protected the Savage Land. As Ororo stepped into it, she thought it the next best thing to heaven. Feeling reborn… feeling _alive… _it reminded her of how clean her native Kenya was, and how hard it had been and still was to get used to New York, where one had to work hard to avoid feeling like an open sewer was nearby. She luxuriated in the water for a moment, enjoying another of the rare but treasured gifts her membership in the X-Men gave her. For all the hardship and peril, she had gained good friends, chances to help, and now, one more experience she could not imagine anyone else having—even a weather goddess.

Opening her eyes, Ororo reached for the leaf-wrapped soap they'd been given back at the village, only to find the leaf empty. She turned around to see Jean had it. But she wasn't washing herself.

"Turn around," Jean said. "Let me pamper you a little. That way, we can call it even for you saving me from being Emma Frost's sex slave."

A little warily, Ororo turned around. "You truly believe she intended that for you? I thought she merely wanted you to return to the Hellfire Club."

Jean hemmed a little. "Emma's pretty fucked up. She thinks she loves me." Jean let out a little laugh. "Really, she just wants to fuck me. I'm the one person she couldn't top."

Ororo was no virgin, but still, she found herself gaping at Jean's crude talk. Jean laughed louder at her shock. Then she took hold of Ororo's shoulder with one hand, using the other to build up a lather between her shoulder blades.

"This is what I wished to talk to you about," Ororo said. Because of their friendship, she found it easy to both discuss important matters with Jean and enjoy her teammate's massage. She had long wondered about how the Americans could be so vigilant in separating emotional and physical intimacy, so that only certain kinds of friends could touch and only certain kinds could be naked. "Ever since you became the Phoenix, you've been different. You're more physical—more open, and more sexual. These are not bad things. But I wonder what they come of."

"What they come of?" Jean asked, moving the soap lower and massaging it into Ororo's skin with her other hand. "Ororo, I _died. _What else could teach me how valuable life is? Before, I let opportunities pass me by… chances to make the kind of memories I didn't have in my first life. Because do you know what I saw when my life flashed before my eyes in that shuttle? A scared little girl, playing second-fiddle in a third-rate team. I don't want to be that. I want to be big. I want to be loud. I want everything I can get from life, good and bad." Cupping some water in her hand, she washed away the lather from Ororo's spine, then kissed the back of her neck. Ororo was taken aback by the simple pleasure of it. "Maybe I want you too."

"Jean!" Ororo cried, as shocked as she had ever been.

Jean laughed as Ororo fled into the shallow water, a sound that Ororo was beginning to find most unlike the Marvel Girl she had known. Still smiling widely, Jean backstroked into the deep waters, where she floated with her red hair unspooling around her like a slow flame.

"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it," Jean said, making a show of washing her arm. Her slender fingers. "Remember when you paraded around naked in front of me, because you were so unfamiliar with our 'strange Western customs'? C'mon. You knew what you were showing off. You wanted me to see it. Maybe I didn't appreciate it then, but I sure do now."

Ororo was frowning, almost entirely out of the water. She didn't like the feeling of fleeing—of judging Jean Grey because her sexual mores had changed. But she also didn't like the thought of her friend out of control. "What about Scott?"

Jean pouted, almost… _mockingly. _"I love Scott. I do, I do! But let's be honest. He's been loving the new me. And I think with just a little push, he'll be loving everyone else too. You thought about it. Him and me, me and him, while you were getting off to escape that deliciously naughty Emma Frost mousetrap. Was it really the first time? You came so hard, Ororo—it might've been. Now imagine both of us. And you. It'd be like an Oreo in reverse. Two bits of cream, and one delicious cookie in the middle."

Ororo grabbed for the towel on the shore. Her new clothes hadn't arrived yet, but there was a difference between being nude on the way back to the village and being nude while Jean spewed this… filth!

"I'm leaving," she informed Jean archly. "I think I'm clean enough."

"Oh yes, you are," Jean agreed readily. "Time to get dirty."

Ororo left in a huff, Jean watching her go, wishing her well. After all, as Ororo wasn't a telepath, she had no way of knowing that Karl Lykos was waiting for her. It'd been a long time since his other half had tasted mutant power. It'd been an even longer time since he'd known the touch of a woman.


	6. Mating Season In The Savage Land

_A/N: This chapter contains dub-con and MC. Just letting you know..._

Jean watched as Ororo tried to secure the skimpy towel around her body, with its curves that defied easy covering. It was a pointless struggle. Karl Lykos was waiting in the reeds ahead. Jean followed suit, sinking into the dark water of the lake up to her nose, only her eyes and a wet coiling of red hair staying above the surface to watch as Karl attacked.

The years had not been kind. Where once he was well-fed, with a full head of hair, a hermit's life had made him emaciated; straggly hair and ragged clothes. Still, desperation gave him strength. He clung to Ororo with his bony arms like a barnacle on a ship. Jean sensed mutant power flowing from her to him, crackling under Ororo's skin like lightning within a thundercloud. She could hear Karl's thoughts, weak and meager—he was sorry to cause Ororo pain, he just wanted a little taste to sustain him, he was even embarrassed of becoming half-hard at the sight of Ororo undressed. And, most importantly, he would let go almost immediately.

Jean didn't let him. She urged him on telepathically, emphasizing how good her power would feel, drowning out his remorse. By the time he realized how much power Ororo really had, what it would do to him… it was too late. Just as Jean wanted.

She had been wrong about a great many things in her life. The Professor had shown her that, and a long line of new 'teachers' had shown her more. The latest of them was Emma, who aside from being a heinous bitch, had shown Jean the meaning of 'happiness in slavery.' At the time, being suborned to the Hellfire Club had seemed frightening. It was scary being powerless, and no matter how much pleasure Emma had brought her, she still remained unsure that Emma could be trusted with her helplessness. But as time passed, nostalgia set in. As much unpleasantness as there had been, she had greatly enjoyed for once not being a mutant poster child, or the X-Men's token female, or Scott's devoted girlfriend. She had liked being a whore, if perhaps not Emma's…

But Ororo had never known that pleasure. Everything was power and responsibility with her, from the birth of her mutant power onward. Her Oliver Twist childhood, living as a thief and orphan, had tainted powerlessness—making her forever associate it with being hurt and afraid. She needed to see that, without the specter of controlling herself, she could know true ecstasy. Being controlled by another could push her past the limits she'd unknowingly set for herself. And who better than Jean Gray, her best friend and the mighty Phoenix, to help her on her path to self-discovery.

She whispered once more in Karl's mind. _She wants you, Karl. You can _make _her want you…_

At her urging, Karl's manhood swelled from semi-erect to full hardness.

* * *

Shanna was tempted to watch as Scott dressed—he was a handsome man, and his obvious modesty gave him a bit of an allure. She sensed in him a certain restrained but predatory impulse, like the many hunters who stalked and crept and waited for their moment to pounce. Logan was a T-rex; big and lumbering, even though he was quite a bit shorter than Scott—somewhat as overt as Piotr had been. But he was willing. Already she could smell his arousal through the water dripping off him, as he stood up from his bath without an ounce of the self-consciousness Scott had… hairy where Scott was smooth, practically unshaven where Scott was soft as a baby, his eyes groping her whereas Scott's were hidden behind his visor.

But soon, Scott was gone. Logan stood there. Shanna hadn't had a chance to see Scott's cock, but Logan's was proportionate to his body. Short, but thick and powerful, with the same compact strength that extended through his entire physique. He was brutish to the point of ugliness, but there was something too appealing about him to dismiss. A savagery. Virility. She found herself needing him to rut with her, as he so clearly desired.

He made the first move, of course. Sauntering out of his bath, leading with his cock, giving her just enough time to flee for Shanna to realize she didn't want to. She reached out to grab his cock, finding that it fit neatly in her hand, warm and hard despite the water. She knew what to do with it. She wouldn't mess up like she had with Zar. Instead, as if Colossus, she would squeeze him as hard as she could.

* * *

Scott was glad Jean wasn't around when he stalked out of the bathhouse. He was giving serious thought to going back in there, blasting Logan like he could've at any time, and taking that blonde supermodel like she was begging for. There had to be some way to end up respected as the leader—at the moment, that was all he could think of.

No, he had to control himself. Had to keep control. That would just make things worse. Sinking to Logan's level might win some temporary fear, but he'd forever lose the others' respect.

Assuming the other X-Men did respect him. Assuming they didn't feel the same as Logan, that he was a prig, a buffoon, a _mascot, _and they were all just too polite to say anything about it. They let him play at strategy and tactics, but when the chips hit the fan, would they listen to him or the Professor, or Storm, or Jean, or even Logan?

Scott felt the beginnings of another tension headache. He wished he could just rip his visor off and stare at the sun, letting the optic blast escape him until all of this restless energy was gone. But no. Even that was too risky. Imagine he looked elsewhere for one second, or there was a plane, or a satellite even. He couldn't chance it.

Every other mutant he'd met could control their powers. His power controlled him. And it was so… fucking… unfair.

Behind him, he heard a pained cry exploding from the bathhouse. Seemed like Logan was having a good time.

* * *

Karl felt a stabbing of guilt as he tightened his grip on the black woman's arm, but it was easily forgotten. She was absurdly posed, trying to pull away with him with one arm still mindlessly holding her towel to her chest, but beautiful nonetheless. And powerful. So powerful. He had only intended to get a taste, to sate the appetite his other self was always growling through, but she was so strong. So strong. He had expected a mutant and instead leashed a god.

So he hung onto her and took her power into himself, felt the old familiar rush. His blood thrumming, his skin pulsing, his muscles pushing against each other to grow outward. In one press, he went from anemic to superhuman, and just barely stopped. The woman fell to her knees—this pose more attractive than the last. Karl didn't want to drain her dry. She had something he wanted first, more even than all that delicious power.

He grasped her by that stunning white hair, forcing her face up to his. "Look into my eyes, woman. You are not looking into the eyes of a man. You are looking into the eyes of _Sauron_."

Even as Karl Lykos would not be denied, Storm would not be conquered. However belated, her rage at this treatment peaked, giving her the strength to push back the irresistible. With one last spark of defiance, she said "The bad guy from the Lord of the Rings?"

Her words were defiant, not carefully chosen.

Karl had been over this before. "It is a _homage_, a _literary reference _to the—" He caught his temper and intensified his gaze. Once more he could feel the power within himself. The greatest power of all. Mesmerism—to impose his will over that of others. With it, he could control presidents and kings, priests and pimps, cops and criminals. But right now, most of all, he wanted just enough control over this woman for her to have no control at all. "Look into my eyes, girl. They are not normal eyes. Do you see the way they shine? Don't you love how they shine?"

Ororo could only nod gently. Sauron was right—his eyes were like tiny jewels, and though it was day, it was almost as if milky moonlight was hitting them at just the right angle to make them glow. Like a silver light was coming right out of his eyes and into hers. For just one moment, like she was remembering a forgotten chore, it seemed incredibly important that she shut her eyes and not look at Sauron. But no. How could that be as important as looking into the depths of those amazing eyes?

"Keep looking into my eyes," Sauron commanded, his voice lowering. "Look very deeply into them. What's happening?"

"Getting brighter," was Ororo's weak answer. His eyes were like spotlights now, the light pouring from them painful to behold. Now Ororo tried to look away, but couldn't. Her eyes stayed on the silvery light that was spreading from his eyes to become his whole face.

"It feels good to look into my eyes, does it not? It is quite relaxing. The brighter they get, the more relaxing it is."

Ororo almost did not know that she said yes—she was mostly aware of thinking that Sauron was right (of course he was right), and that seemed like the same thing. It felt very good to look into the silver. The tension that had filled her body over her fight with Jean was gone. The lingering shame from escaping Emma's ship was also gone. All she could remember now was the pleasure of that masturbatory episode; it had stayed with her all this time, and now she realized Jean was right about her. She wanted more. She wanted the real thing.

"You would do anything to keep looking into my eyes, would you not?"

Ororo leapt to his meaning like a high-jumper. "Please don't take it away! Please? I need it."

"It will not go away, so long as you obey me. Will you obey me?"

"Yes. Don't take the good feeling away."

"I won't. The good feeling is getting better. You are getting more relaxed, even more at peace. You feel good. You feel better than you ever have in your life. You feel so good, so relaxed, so at peace that you could fall asleep right now. Sleep, girl. Let your body fall silent and feel nothing but the peace I bring to it. You want to sleep. I know you want it."

It was true. Ororo had felt so relaxed, so at ease listening to his voice and looking into his eyes, that it only made sense she felt a wave of sleepiness wash over before. She hadn't been tired before, she didn't quite feel tired now, but she felt so lethargic that she couldn't keep her eyes open. But she had to stare him into his eyes. She felt like she was waging a war. Her body's need to sleep, to obey, versus the good feeling that could only continue if she looked him in the eye.

Her mind grew fuzzy. The world fell away—sound and scent and taste and touch—everything but the marvelously silver glow of those strange eyes. The only thing letting her cling to consciousness when she was so tired that she could pass out. She could not form a single thought. She didn't even want to. Not when it was so important that she kept staring into his eyes.

"Sleep, girl. I will it. I command it. You must go to sleep. But not just any sleep. You are entering a trance. Your mind is becoming a void where there is only my words, my orders, your obedience. You will continue to know the good feeling in this void, but you will also be aroused. You will feel all the arousal that you hold back in your day to day life—all the arousal you feel in your deepest, darkest fantasies. I'm going to count down from five. As I count, from five to one, you will feel passionately aroused with each number I speak. The lower the number gets, the more pleasure you feel and the more you want. You will want to make love. Even if you have never been with a man before, this arousal will be like the good feeling. It is nice and relaxing. You will see nothing wrong with giving into it. This arousal is natural and good. I am counting now, and you are becoming sleepier and more aroused. Five."

Ororo swayed slightly and grabbed onto Karl's shoulder for support. Though she was usually quite reserved around strangers, now she saw nothing wrong with touching this odd man. She even thought of how nice he was, allowing her to hold onto him when her legs suddenly seemed so weak…

"Four," he said, and Ororo felt such a powerful sensation that she stumbled. Karl caught her in his arms, observing with some amusement that she'd fallen so the towel stayed draped over her front. Her subconscious aversion to sex must've been incredibly powerful. Still, now he could look over her shoulder and see the wonderfully rolling hills of her ass, so ripe and buoyant. Even covered, they would be a temptation. Bare, they were begging to be touched.

"Three." Ororo shook ever so slightly in his arms, from her hair all the way down to that amazing ass. Even that tiny motion was enough to make it jiggle. When she looked up into his eyes once more, seeking the good feeling, Ororo's eyes were dilated. Her breasts heaved with each breath.

"Two." Ororo gasped with another little shock of sexual pleasure. She closed her eyes and moaned softly. Karl could _scent _her now—smell her arousal even in his mostly human state. He broke the cadence he'd been using, making Ororo hang on the last sensation, and though she tried not to, she writhed with the need for more.

"One," he whispered, and Ororo went limp, her head slumping down to spill white curls over her face and down to her abdomen. "Are you in the void, girl?"

"Yes," Ororo breathed, and Karl could resist no longer. He reached for the towel preserving her modesty, thought better of it, and instead clenched his hand into a fist.

"Take off the towel for me. Show me your body. I want to see it. I am your master. You will obey me."

The sense of lethargy, of relaxation, that Ororo felt had deepened to the point of forming an abyss for her to fall in. Everything Karl said went through one ear and out the other, impossible to focus on, leaving only echoes that might as well have been Ororo's own thoughts. She wanted to be naked; but she also didn't. It was bad somehow. Dangerous. Even though she liked the danger, even though the danger aroused her…

Sauron saw her hesitation, her hands rising to the top of the towel and then trembling in mid-air. He was still weak, his power unsure. He needed practice.

"Look into my eyes," he commanded, and this Ororo obeyed almost needfully. "You like the glow from my eyes, don't you? You especially like seeing the glow with your own eyes. But it will feel even better on your skin. If you remove the towel, you will feel the glow on your skin, and the good feeling will be there too. The more naked you are, the more you can feel the glow. Do you want to feel it?"

Ororo did not answer. She just lifted her hands up, took hold of the towel, and slowly lowered it down her body. First, her breasts were exposed. Firm enough to be high-set, but ample enough to be soft, the perfect thing for Sauron's reintroduction to the female sex. He literally licked his lips, wanting to run his mouth all over them, but was unwillingly to end his dominance over her so quick and simply.

Feeling the glow from his eyes on her chest, Ororo's breasts heaved and her nipples hardened painfully, the only thing that could make her cleavage even more perfect. Karl watched, his breathing deepening and quickening, as the towel was peeled away from her flat, trim stomach, off her thick but sleek hips, even from her tightly closed thighs. He could just see the dark red glow of her labia crushed between her legs.

Ororo had expected to feel the same shame that had marred her pleasure as she escaped from Emma Frost's prison, but it never came. She loved the feeling of being naked and she loved the silver glow covering her body. It was like feeling warm sunlight on her naked body, but more intense, almost physical. She knew of only one thing that would feel better. Lying in Karl's arms like a swooning bride, she inched her legs apart. She played her hands on her fit body. She brought her fingers down the length of her ebony skin, feeling the heat of the glow on her palms and on the backs of her hands. Far below was her destination. The glow-warm flesh between her legs, where her hands would feel the full heat of the silver.

"I am your master," Karl repeated. "You must obey me. Close your eyes."

Ororo did, the command easy to obey now that she could feel the glow on her skin and in her hands. Her palms continued to wipe at the lingering moisture of the lake as they wandered down her stomach.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yes, master."

"What is your name?"

"Ororo Munroe," she answered readily. Her fingers dipped into her belly button in passing. "Also called Storm, of the X-Men."

"Ororo…" Karl breathed, watching with bated breath as Ororo remained in control of herself enough to skate her hands down her hips. Or perhaps she had lost so much control that she couldn't stop herself. "You will not touch your vagina. That is for me alone. You may touch yourself elsewhere, but not there."

Ororo's beautiful face contorted in dismay, actually whimpering like a dog as her hands instead clenched at her thighs, rubbing and kneading the firm flesh so close to the needed destination.

"Now, do you want to look into my eyes once more?"

"So much," Ororo begged. "Please?

"You will stay in your trance. You will remain in the void. But I am allowing you to open your eyes."

Full of gratitude, Ororo opened her eyes. Again, she looked into the silvery glow that had consumed Sauron's face, eclipsed the whole world. Entranced as she was, she knew enough to smile. Looking into his eyes felt even better than feeling them on her body.

"Repeat after me," Karl said softly, even as he almost panted with the power he had over her. "Sauron is my master."

"Sauron is my master."

"Karl Lykos is Sauron."

"Karl Lykos is Sauron."

"Karl Lykos is my master."

"Karl Lykos is my master."

Karl hissed in contentment. "Who is your master?"

"Sauron."

"Who is Sauron?"

"Karl Lykos."

"Who is Karl Lykos?"

"My master."

"One last question." Karl bit his lip. He was painfully hard by now. It hurt just having his cock confined to the tattered jeans he had worn since coming to the Savage Land. "What would you do for your master? What would you do for Karl Lykos? What would you do for Sauron?"

Ororo smiled. It was such an easy question. So simple. "Anything he wants."

"I wish to know your darkest, most intimate fantasies. Tell me what you desire. Now."

Ororo opened her mouth and the words poured out. Every wet dream, every sick fantasy, every passing crush. She'd had no idea there was so _much _of it. She hadn't had to work on coming up with masturbatory fantasies of her teammates—she'd had to work to fool herself that she didn't already have them. Not just them, but celebrities, Avengers, even supervillains. Her doing things to them, them doing things to her. As soon as her lips were parted, it was all ripped out of her. She wasn't a goddess at all. She was a pervert who wanted to fuck and be fucked in every single way there was, from the most romantic imagery to the most dirty and depraved.

Finally, she caught her breath. "I want… to be kissed," she finished lamely. That most of all. That simple gesture that she had barely allowed herself, because that one thing could lead to so much more.

Karl tightened his arms around her, crushing her naked body to his, and forced their lips together. There was no romance to it, barely even sensuality. Just his power. So much power that even a goddess could bow before it.

Ororo felt herself moisten. The glow was all over her body, but where she really needed it was inside her.

* * *

Jean watched as Karl kissed her unwilling best friend, hungrily, passionately, domineeringly. Just the kind of kiss Ororo never allowed herself, and so just the kind of kiss that Jean knew she needed. There was no love in it, no emotion besides an almost wrathful hunger, but honestly, Jean thought that just made Ororo respond more passionately. It was hard not to notice how she twisted and turned her body into Karl's roving hands, how she moaned at each grasp he took of her offered flesh, how her inner thighs were now as slick and shiny as her core. It wasn't Karl's commands that had her responding so enthusiastically to his touch, nor was it at his order that she was so aroused by his lips on hers. It was just what Jean had always known—that Storm needed to be fucked just that badly.

And Karl needed it too, Jean sensed. He could feel the vast reservoir of Ororo's power, still locked within her body. And what a way he had to get it out.

Jean watched, the feeling of the water swirling around her nude body suddenly seeming more powerful, as Karl's hands roughly grasped Ororo's hair. She gasped as he jerked her head back, but her face quickly filled with a sultry smile as he tugged her lower. Was it him that forced her lips to his bare chest, urging her to kiss and suckle at his skin, or was that Ororo? Jean couldn't tell from a distance. She couldn't tell if Karl was urging her on or holding her back, trying to savor the feel of her tongue against his toned stomach while she was determined to kneel.

Then Ororo's hands were at his jeans, tugging at the waistband and zipper at the same time, anything to pull his endowment free of its confines. She succeeded, and Jean had to gasp. Karl must have siphoned _much _energy from Storm. He pressed down hard to guide her open mouth to his cock, but she was already falling upon it, and he ended up just holding Ororo's head between his hands as she bobbed up and down on him.

* * *

Half of Ororo was sucking on Lykos's cock and the other half couldn't believe she was doing it. Somehow, she was both—this seething slut who enthusiastically catered to Karl's every whim, and herself, Ororo Monroe, weather witch, still able to insist to herself how impossible this was as she forced every inch of him into her gullet. It was like having a sexual fantasy she couldn't stop thinking about, because it was really happening. She was really taking him in her mouth, tasting his precum as it trickled down her throat, the taste bitter but somehow delicious to her. She had never had anything like this in her mouth before, and she wondered if it could truly be there. To her horror, Ororo found her tongue wonderingly bathing his glans, confirming to her that it was his manhood settling in her throat.

_This cannot be happening. I am Storm, deputy leader of the X-Men! Not some wanton whore who would suck a man off without even knowing him! _

Once again, her body double-checked what was being done, hands roving over his hardened midsection and powerful legs while her head continued to nod against his crotch, as if saying yes to this continued degradation. His muscles seemed larger than she remembered glimpsing, his skin colder, smoother. No, that wasn't important! She had to fight this! She had to find a way to overcome this devil's control!

Karl moaned in awe as her lips sunk to the base of his cock, angling his hips toward her in helpless ecstasy, and Ororo felt a flush of pride. He was a hateful villain who was taking incredible liberty with her, but then, she was rocking his world. Almost helplessly, her mind returned to the chilly heft of the phallus in her mouth, the way it fit down her throat so rightly.

It seemed to be getting longer.

* * *

After he let loose a bit of a girly screech, Shanna backed away from Logan. Judging from the way he was wincing and hunching over himself, he hadn't liked her handjob as much as Piotr had. She'd never understand men.

"I hurt you," she said flatly, and Logan thought he could detect a hint of pride in her voice at paining the dinosaur-slayer. He'd been wondering whether blondie wanted it sweet or sour, and after this, he was pretty sure the dial was tuned to sour.

"Yeah," Logan muttered, when he was satisfied his voice wouldn't squeak. "But it's okay. I'm all better now."

And just like that, he tackled Shanna, hustling her to the floor. She instinctively tried to scurry out from under him, but her caught her by her flailing limbs and flipped her over, now pinning her down with both of his meaty hands on her shoulders and his body holding down her legs. Her arms pedaled, pounding on the ground and scratching at it like an animal, but he had her good and caught.

"Hold still, darlin'. Need you quiet for you to make that up to me."

Shanna fisted her hands in the grassy carpet of the bathhouse, but the howl he'd felt building in her sternum disappeared. She was playing ball. "How?"

He decided to show her. Letting her up, but giving her ass a hearty slap to tell her to stay put, Logan's hands went to his cock. His mutant healing factor had dulled the pain, even brought his erection back up to snuff, but he didn't feel like testing it out in pussy just yet. Then he looked down at Shanna's ass—damn fine for a white girl, just the right mix of muscle and curve, so it was soft but not flabby, firm but not hard. Still tending himself with one hand, Logan cupped his other palm over a smooth cheek and felt his fingers sink in like warm silk. That was damn promising.

Now he tightened his fingers, pulling her cheek out and away from the crack it hid. Giving his crank one last stroke, he slotted his semi-hard member between Shanna's buttocks, took hold of those lovely mounds of flesh in either hand, and closed them over his cock.

"Hell yeah," he breathed, feeling himself surrounded by warm flesh, his own hands holding it shut on him so he got just the right amount of pressure. If he could just persuade a few of those native girls to hold a cigar for him, maybe another one to be a cupholder for the local brew, this'd be one hell of a vacation. And almost immediately, his cock was up to adamantium hardness, with only a lingering trace of soreness to make the whole thing a little sweeter.

Shanna wasn't looking too comfortable with the arrangement, throwing her hair around to see what he was doing over her shoulder. Logan had guessed it wouldn't go down easy with her—nothing a frail hated more than their man getting off without taking them along. But it served her right after using his cock for a stress ball.

He kept right on relaxing into the warm feel of her ass around his cock, a nice lazy fuck, just rubbing himself into that beautiful butt. It seemed like nothing more than a fun warm-up before the big game, but he found himself really liking having Shanna facedown while he rutted with her in completely selfish pleasure. A bit of the chauvinist in him, maybe, the caveman. And getting to squeeze that pretty ass of hers at the same time, feeling it yielding to and resist his groping all at once… well, he wasn't complaining about that, either. He even gave it a few spanks for good measure, sending a jolt through his cock and making Shanna yowl in outraged tension. Oh yeah. Damn fine way to spend an afternoon.

He had been intending to give Shanna a front-row seat to her own fucking, jam himself in and show her what he _really _did best, but fuck it, this felt too damn good to stop. Logan sped up, holding her butt so tight he could barely move, but his cock was nice and slippery with precum, and it dug between her cheeks like a bar of soap in the shower.

"You bastard," Shanna breathed, able to feel how big and hard he was but not do a damn thing to get him where she needed it. "Fuck me already!"

"I am fuckin' ya," Logan replied amicably, "we're just doin' it Japanese style. The man comes first."

The growl of dissatisfaction Shanna let out settled the deal. Definite caveman spank bank stuff, hearing and feeling her all disgruntled but wanting it too—submitting to him, all wolf pack like. Logan drew back until he might slip out, then dove back in, a full-length stroke that ended with his cockhead poking out at her tailbone just in time to spurt. One of them mighty big ejaculations his mutant condition left him with, the reserves a normal man would take months to build up and Logan had gotten laid only last week. His cock pulsed quite a few times, getting it all out, shooting thick ropey streams that settled in that cute little dimple at the small of Shanna's back—filling 'er up like a dish of soap.

Shanna's mouth dropped open, both at the power of his cumming and at the knowledge that once more it wasn't inside her. She still didn't know what it even felt like to really get fucked!

"We're done!?" she cried in dismay, reaching behind herself to dip her fingers into the pool of cum he'd left for her. "I barely even got to feel your manhood this time!"

"Done?" Logan chuckled. "We're done when I say we're done. Uh-uh, sweetheart. My genes zigging where they should've zagged's given me a lotta problems over the years, but that ain't been one of 'em. One, two, three… and the ol' Canuckhead's ready for more. Sometimes, having a mutant healing factor is a realllll bitch."

Shanna looked over her shoulder once more—and gaped. If she didn't know better, she'd say he'd gotten even bigger.

Logan guessed her thoughts. It was easy enough. "What can I say, darlin'? I'm a grower, not a shower."

* * *

Jean could only watch as power once more ran from Ororo; she could've been exhaling it into Karl like one would inflate a balloon. A literal blowjob. Karl, tall to begin with, grew taller, leaner, his shoulders broadening while the rest of him stayed to scale. He held out his wiry arms to the side and they sagged like melting rubber, before Jean realized those were the membranes of wings being formed. As his skin changed color, hardening into a fertile green, and his hair fell off like dirt in a shower, the most startling change of all occurred. He snapped his teeth out in a horrid smile, his jaws going further and further until they were outside his lips, elongating into a long, hardened beak.

No, Jean took it back. The most startling change was his phallus, which grew large enough to push Storm away from his groin, where she'd been nestled, and leave her gagging on the ground below the saurian monster that had replaced her master. Jean knew him; a man whose mutant evolution had somehow fallen on a parallel track to that of the extinct Pteranodon, a humanoid beast in the lineage of Hank or Kurt. "But you're dead!" she couldn't help herself from crying.

Karl ignored her, but not her words—he spoke as if the world itself had whispered to him and he could answer it in kind. "Dead, you say? I am evil incarnate—I cannot die! Behold, world, the rebirth of Sauron! And know that as I claimed this she-mutant, so shall I claim all that I desire!"

Midway through his speech, Ororo spread her legs and began to touch herself. She hoped the monologue wouldn't take long. He had barely ravished her at all yet.

* * *

Logan flipped Shanna over, pinned her down again with his hands on her chest. Total coincidence. Honest. He looked over her now that he had her on her back—good-lookin' frail. _Great_-lookin' frail. More curves than he knew what to do with, and now that her cunt was in open air, he could smell her need like he was havin' perfume sprayed in his face. And it sure was tempting, that pink slit almost turnin' to red, but he had to be honest, at the moment, he had a hard time taking his mind off how those tits felt in the palms of his hands. He couldn't stop thinking of how they'd feel around his cock. And, truth be told, he was getting' to like frustrating Jane of the Jungle.

He straddled the blonde, parked himself right over her ribs and laid his cock between her tits. Got a firm grasp of 'em with his paws and brought 'em together, a nice little sandwich with his junk in the middle. It felt good in his hands, felt _great _on his cock, and looked damn pretty too. Softer than her buttcheeks had been, but no less firm. Just less muscle. Fuck, he couldn't explain it—it just felt perfect. Growling with contentment low in his throat, Logan began to thrust into the warm valley of her cleavage.

"I need you inside me," Shanna said, growling herself, all need and want, "_I need it!_"

"All good things, blondie. All good things. Figure you owe me another little bit of fun from that handshake ya gave me below the belt. Don't worry 'bout it; I'll be quick."

True to his word, precum was seeping down the slope of his cockhead to leave a slimy trail under his dick, out of her cleavage and up to her swanlike throat with his cock. Shanna's tongue peeked out of her lips, breathing so hard that her exhales wafted over the knob of his phallus. If she couldn't have him inside her, she wanted to taste him—but even tipping her head forward and sticking her tongue out, she couldn't quite reach his cock. Logan laughed at the show.

"Here, darlin'. Try this on for size." And he cupped her plump tit with one callused hand, lifting it up to Shanna's tongue. It was so big that Shanna was easily able to lick the slope of her own breast, even reach her areola with the tip of her tongue. It felt good… offered some relief from all the teasing Logan was doing.

He couldn't resist anymore. His cockhead was rapidly turning a shade of purple he wasn't used to. His balls dragged up Shanna's taut stomach as he worked his way through those gorgeous tits one more time, until his cock was squeezed through her cleavage and ran up her clavicle, up to her waiting mouth. She stopped licking her tits and opened her mouth as wide as it could go. The sight of her, eyes intent on his cock, lips wide open, all submissive and willing but with just a hint of fire in her eyes—that did it.

Shanna literally felt his shaft throb as his cum sped out of his balls. A thick jet of it shot against her parted lips, so hard that her head jerked back and the next burst sloshed into the fluttering hollow of her throat. She whimpered, shocked at how hot it was—part of her feared it would scald her and part of her didn't care. He spurted again, onto her cheek, and again into her hair, and again, and again. Logan seemed to have an unlimited supply, a floodgate in him that had finally burst. He roared as he grinded her tits together on his cock, bucking his hips as if he were squeezing the cum out of himself, buffeting it into Shanna's face.

"More, more!" Shanna demanded. Unbelievable as it seemed, he still hadn't come in her mouth. "Don't stop!"

Logan felt one more dollop waiting to go. He slapped her tits a few times, sending warm ripples up his cock, then took a deep breath and sighed in contentment as one last geyser erupted from him, right past those gleaming lips. Shanna took so much that it spilled down her chin; then her throat moved with a weighty swallow. Her face had so much spunk on it that she reminded Logan of his last trip to Japan.

Not that Logan could do much thinking then. Everything but his cock had gone limp; it was still rock hard where it nestled in her cleavage, twitching erratically. But the rest of him… Christ almighty, he felt like he'd lost blood instead of cum. When he tried to stand, his legs shook, and he staggered back down to one knee, his cock landing on Shanna's belly—soft-hard like the rest of her.

Licking her lips, Shanna reached down and grasped Logan's cock and balls, squeezing the latter like she wanted them pumped absolutely dry. The last dregs of his current batch floated out of his knob in a trickle. Shanna gathered it up like she was petting him down there and rubbed it on her lower belly, from groin to belly button. When she'd finished, her womb gleamed dully, like she was painting him a target.

"Now inside me?" she asked, eyes up at him, lashes batting all innocent-like. Girl was going to be the death of him. But Logan felt his mutant healing factor, his warrior spirit, his animal instincts all pulling him up for another round. He breathed hard, soaked in the scent of her want cut with his cum. Nothing more for it—she was his mate and he was gonna give her what she'd asked for.

By the time he'd finished, there wouldn't be a frail within a hundred miles half as well-fucked.

For Jean, watching Ororo being taken was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Sauron had locked his arms around her, his membranous wings wrapped around her like a shower curtain. They were thin enough that Ororo's abundant curves could be seen through them, her ass most especially sticking out, shaking and shimmying with each thrust Sauron gave. It was nice, but nothing compared to the sight of Ororo in all her nude glory.

On the other hand, now that Sauron was inside her, Ororo had become much more talkative.

"**OH FUCK!"**

* * *

Ororo Monroe had no compunctions about lovemaking. She'd enjoyed many lovers since reaching the cusp of womanhood—but always on her own terms. She believed in being wooed, being charmed, being romanced. It was not that she put a high value on physicality. Indeed, it was because of the low value the Western world put on it that she was so 'repressed'. A physical connection was nothing compared to the emotional and spiritual one she sought, and she would not indulge the former at the cost of the latter. She would rather put off any physical expression of love until a relationship had truly been built, body and soul.

"OH YES! FUCK ME! FUCK ME, YOU DAMN MONSTER! FUCK ME WITH YOUR MONSTER COCK!"

And now, she could still not believe this was happening to her. It was like a dream—a nightmare. Being dominated, utterly possessed, by this cold, unfeeling brute! It was like one of her worst fears come to life!

"HARDER! FUCK ME HARDER! YOU HAVE TO FUCK ME HARDER!"

The only comfort was the thought of getting revenge. She'd make Sauron pay for this if it was the last thing she did. He couldn't just use her with impunity. Once this was over, she'd hunt him down and give him what he had coming.

"HOLY SHIT, THAT'S GOOD! OH, YOU DIRTY MOTHERFUCKER! YOU KNOW HOW GOOD IT IS!"

It was humiliating—traumatizing. Being made to feel this way by such a repulsive creature, and all while Jean watched too. Jean seeing every embarrassing moment of her debasement, her corruption, her violation. And with just the slightest use of her psychic powers, she could feel what Ororo was. The cold, scaly feel of the creature's skin, the harder-than-human girth of its phallus as it raptured Ororo again and again, even the sleek leathery weight of the wings that closed in around Ororo like a cool blanket. She might not be able to look Jean in the eye after this.

"DON'T STOP! DON'T STOP! MAKE ME COME! I NEED IT! I NEED YOU! FUCK!"

She would need therapy, for sure. Perhaps medication. She might even need to leave the team to work out what was happening to her. Would she have nightmares about this? Every night recalling the sinister details of the assault on her, remembering each moment vividly, waking up screaming.

"YOU CALL THIS A FUCK? YOU EVIL, HIDEOUS BEAST! YOU HAVEN'T EVEN MADE ME COME YET! YOU HAVE NOT EVEN—**OH! OOH! YESSS!"**

This really was the kind of thing that could stay with her for the rest of her life.

* * *

For what seemed like a long time indeed, Logan just watched as Shanna smeared his cum all over her face, most of it getting worked done to her mouth, where she smacked her lips greedily on it. He'd worked up a good head of steam, and two cums were usually nothing for his eternally youthful body, but something about this frail made him weak in the knees. He had a feeling this would be it, so as much as he would've liked to make her sing a bit more for her supper, it was time for the main event.

He gave his cock a few last pumps, just so it'd be as hard as it could possibly be—he wanted this smug bitch to think she had a length of rebar up her hole. Shock and awe, all the way. Shanna watched his cock go in and out of his hand like she was expecting a magic trick; she licked her fingers clean.

"You want something?" he asked, his face contorted with vulgar lust. "Might wanna ask for it nicely. All sweet-like, too."

Shanna took in a hard breath. "Fuck me. No more waiting. No more games. Fuck me now."

"What's the magic word, sweetheart?"

"_Please_," she said, her voice half desire and half loathing, hating him for making him beg but loving what she was begging for. Logan loved that voice. He got it from Jeannie sometimes. Never failed to make his cock hard.

"Please what?" he asked, though his cock was hard enough already.

"Please fuck my cunt!"

That did it. Logan grabbed her by her haunches, pulled her closer to him, and parted her legs like she was about to ride a horse. "Get ready for some Canadian bacon, girlie."

Shanna shut her eyes, almost in fear. Then Logan came down on her. No preparation, no foreplay beyond him using her like a sex toy. He was hard as steel and he wanted her.

It was that exact thought that made Shanna so ready for him.

The first thing Shanna felt—distinctly felt—was the coarse black hair that covered his midsection, along with nearly all the rest of him. It bristled against her belly, became matted with the cum he'd sprayed there earlier. They stuck together a little, a pleasantly unpleasant sensation just before Logan dove into her cunt. Not slipped, not slid—he penetrated her. Shanna vibrated with the familiar electricity; he wasn't as big as Colossus, Shanna wasn't sure anyone was, but she wanted it more now and so it felt even better. She cried out louder than she would at a dinosaur's claws, feeling him thrust into her even more madly than he had into her tits. He'd been anticipating this too.

His berserk rutting was so intense that it actually hurt a little; a new sensation for Shanna. Not the pain, but pain that felt good. It felt like she was being split in two, and as much as it hurt, she liked it.

She was so statuesque and he was so stocky that by hunching over only a little, he was at eye level with her breasts. Mouth level. For a moment, he just let them jerk about his face with the motion of his fucking, liking the way they filled his nostrils with Shanna's sweaty scent and his own faded musk—the smell of ownership. But his natural urge to claim, to mark and dominate, had reached its apex. With a growl in the back of his throat, he clamped his teeth down on her left breast and held it in his jaws. Shanna gasped breathily for every moment he held it in his teeth.

At first he only kept it still; her jiggling breast trying to tear itself away from Logan's grip twinged in a way Shanna liked. Then he bit down, his sharp canines digging into the meat of Shanna's tit. The pressure was painful enough. Then he opened his mouth just long enough to snap his teeth back down, hard enough to draw the slightest trace of blood—a sharp, dizzying pain.

This Shanna enjoyed. And all the while his hips bucked hard into her, short quick stabs that felt like he was kindling a fire within her. It was violent, primitive, savage. And this too Shanna enjoyed.

She started to cry out. "Please, please!" A symbol of her surrender, her enjoyment. Her legs wrapped around Logan, bodily telling him the same thing. But it was her fierce pride that made her dig her nails into his shoulders and bloodily rake them down the flesh of his back. He had to realize that though she was surrendered to him now, it would not always be so.

His reaction was immediate and petulant. He grabbed her hands, now dug into his hairy ass, and wrestled them up over her head, pinning them down in her cum-clotted hair. The two outside claws on either three-piece set slotted out of their spaces between his knuckles. He staked them into the ground with Shanna's wrists between them, pinning Shanna's arms down. "Sorry, darlin'. Only one of us gets ta draw blood this time." And he laved his rough tongue over the faint marks of blood on her bitten breast.

His words, his hold on her, sent hot lava coursing through her veins, lightning through her bones. She was more aware than ever of his cock's mad motion in her cunt, his balls twitching with release against her ass. His seed was demanding to escape. The only place to go was deep inside her.

"Come for me," she commanded, or begged, it didn't matter. "Give me your seed. Give me your child. Fill my womb with it!"

He growled hard around the weight of her breast in his mouth, the animal in him eagerly reciprocating her offer. Her legs tightened around him to a point that would break a normal man in half, trying to keep his cock within her and failing as he broke her grip each time and pistoned back fiercely to fulfill her body's demand. The hair on his chest madly teased her electric skin, his teeth worried at her nipple like a dog with a bone, she arched her back to take him even deeper inside. They fucked with all the strength in their superhuman bodies, all the brutality in their savage natures.

"Make me a mother," Shanna panted in Logan's ear, her bold voice stolen away by the impossible pleasure she was feeling. "I want my breasts to swell with milk. I want life to grow inside me. Use me as much as you like. Come in me all you want. Don't stop until I'm pregnant. Breed me, you fucking animal. _Breed me!"_

Logan was almost there, her words speaking directly to the most primitive side of him. He was so close he felt like his cock would burst. His coming orgasm was gripping him tightly, paralyzing belly, thighs, cock and balls. He was all tensed up, ecstatically suspended in those long seconds before climax, body primed for the pleasure to come. His cock was still, buried to the balls in Shanna, all of it locked in her wetly clutching need.

Just one more thrust, then he'd be givin' her all the cum she'd ever need. The only thing that stopped him was a lightning-fast thought; a voice that sounded a lot like Cyclops shouting one of his dinky orders, the kind that annoyingly ended up being dead-on.

_Kids_? With some jungle floozy he barely knew? And _kids_? What if he had a daughter who ended up as a prostitute? Or a son who wound up bisexual? He didn't need that shit in his life. It'd cut into time he could put into beer and cigars.

Shanna protested for the first time that night as Logan pulled out of her. She bared her teeth in rage, she hissed in disappointment, her hips flapped wildly against the restraining weight Logan placed on them, her juices now flowing freely from her cunt. With Logan's claws extended, she couldn't move her hands no matter how hard the muscles of her arms flexed. Logan had to grin at the irony. Blondie was well and truly fucked. She whimpered, gyrating herself to try to get him back inside her, left an instant away from orgasm, fucking herself on nothing.

"No, no!" she screamed in frustration. Logan admitted to himself that he had some issues as _that_ set him off, a gorgeous throbbing burst to clean out his congested tubes. Shanna was a passive receptive to him, the dazed woman powerless to stop him as he came. His cock seemed to recoil, maybe just in comparison to the foot-long jet of cum that shot from him and splattered across Shanna's left breast. It hung there for a moment like a white brand before splitting into several streams flowing down the tantalizing slope of her cleavage. He just had to look at that bit of her painted white and his orgasm kept going and going.

Seemed like he had a gallon of jizz packed away somewhere, just waiting to be dumped all over some lucky broad. He shot it all out of him till he tapered, then gave his junk a shake so the last drops dripped onto her. One spray went high, into the hollow of her neck before it ran down her tits. Another soaked both teats, forming a rope that dangled between her nipples long enough that Logan could've taken a picture if he'd had a camera with him. Shame he'd only be able to take a mental Polaroid with him. His memory wasn't the best.

He came longer and more powerfully than ever before, as if his balls were producing new sperm even as the old was pumped out. As if her breasts were drawing his spunk out of him. He gushed over her chin and neck, letting Shanna feel it running down her cleavage, and she squeezed her thighs together trying to give herself the same pleasure. But the only comfort to be had was his jizz splattering on her tits like boiling oil from his shuddering shaft. It excited her more than ever. She felt like she was taking a bath in his hot cum.

Logan's balls drained off slowly and lavishly. His body sagged, but his cock remained indefatigable. It shot as strong as ever, only pointed now directly at her breasts by his sagging body. He fired over her nipples, onto the upper curves of her breasts, into the valley between them. Soon the jets of white were running together, pooling in a river than ran down her stomach as well like melting candle wax.

Shanna was quick to accept the untenable situation. If she couldn't have him in her cunt, she wanted him elsewhere. Where he'd taste the best. She tilted her head toward him. "More. In my mouth," she bargained, then opened her mouth and closed her eyes to wait passively.

Logan's cock was beginning to flag, dribbling cum into Shanna's belly button more than anything else. He ripped his claws from the ground, retracting them even as he grabbed Shanna's head in his hands and brought his phallus to her gaping mouth. The heat and hunger of that yearning hole brought him back to life. He had one last spurt that felt like a cum all by itself, and he reveled in it for eternal seconds—the jerking, the clearing—he even could've sworn he felt his oily semen being swept down his throat and into her belly. He absolutely did feel it back up and wash over his cock, having overflowed Shanna's mouth to the point of escaping those sweet lips. She tried to swallow and keep her mouth open at the same time, half-gagging, but that wasn't Logan's problem. He just glowed with the good feeling of being emptied, drained to the dregs to leave a frothing mess pretty much from Shanna' s nose on down.

Logan sank back, his balls slack, his prick still tense but hanging down by his thigh. He was done. Could've done more if he felt it, but honestly, he'd cum on Shanna so much that it'd be like making it with Frosty the Snowman. He let his cock sway a little, semi-stiff, Shanna watching it hungrily until it finally went limp.

Girl didn't give up easily, he'd give her that. She arched that strong back and thrust those big tits out, so glazed with cum that they could've been cakes, and the first thing she did with her freed hands was work his jism into her globes. Grinned appealingly as she ran her finger over an engorged nipple, scooping up the cum that hung off it, and sucked it off her fingertip like it was a little cock. Then she cupped her hands under her tits, webbing her fingers with spunk, and held them up and out, like she was offering them up as a target for Logan. She stared into his eyes, then gazed down in amazement at the literal shower of cum that was slithering down her breasts—then her eyes went anxiously to his cock, wanting more. The both of them hypnotized by her dripping, glistening breasts.

"So much seed. Your seed all over my breasts," she breathed, licking at her painted cleavage daintily—

And that did send a throb through Logan, but hell, he was feeling contrary. Grabbing his costume to throw on right over his own cum-splattered body—it wasn't like he wasn't used to smelling funny—he gave her his most feral smile. "Good thing you're in a bathhouse, sweetheart."

* * *

Jean was Ororo, being taken and hating it and loving it, and she was Sauron, doing the taking, and then she was just their orgasm… Sauron screeching out his release like a true predator letting out a hunting cry, his phallus roaring into Ororo's wet sex with spurts of white so extreme that they flooded out of her pussy and covered his own manhood like whipped cream.

Jean was both—a Mobius strip that included Ororo feeling the spasm within her, the heady sensation of being filled up and then overflowing, Sauron in near-perpetual climax as he simply came and came and came, till it had dripped back down to his balls and dropped to the ground beneath them. His call died down shrilly and the overpowering silver light faded from his eyes, leaving them a surprisingly human blue.

"Oh God," Karl Lykos cried, suddenly finding himself imprisoned in his alter-ego's fell body, "what have I done?"

He opened his arms and Ororo fell out, spilling onto the ground, her breasts jogging, her thighs inundated with his seed. She groaned weakly—the sunbaked ground overwarm after she'd grown used to being skin to skin with his cold-blooded flesh.

"I'm sorry!" he screamed, flapping his wings to take flight, not able to bear the accusing vindictiveness of the woman's eyes that he knew was coming. "I'm so sorry!"

He disappeared up into the sky, scattering a flight of smaller flying lizards—in seconds, he disappeared as if rejoining a primal world, fitting it like a missing puzzle piece.

Ororo sneered after him. If he was really sorry, he would've stayed until she'd had her orgasm.

She was considering finishing herself off, but on a second thought, was wary of touching the mass of ejaculate that Sauron had left all over her lower body. In fact, she was wondering if a dinosaur could get her pregnant when Jean emerged from the lake, naked of course, hair a dark blood-red from the same water that dripped off every inch of her perfect body. Was it any wonder that Ororo didn't resist or even question as Jean strutted up to her, fell to her knees before her, and parted Ororo's trembling legs?

"Let's clean you up a little," she said, and fell between Ororo's literally creamy thighs to lick every inch of them clean.

Nearby, Zar hid as best he could in the bushes. To think, he had hated the thought of being tasked with delivering the women's clothes when all the village girls were occupied with preparing for the feast. Now, he was witnessing a sight almost more erotic than seeing Shanna bared.

This completely made up for the time he'd happened upon Doc in that lagoon.

* * *

Afterward—long minutes later—Ororo relaxed into the pillowy soft grass and let the sun warm and dry her, Jean doing the same at her side. She had a hard time believing how equally and how differently she had enjoyed the two sexual acts that had happened in the past hour—far more sex than she'd had in months. She had liked the rough, almost violent submission of her body to Sauron—as large a trespass as she had found it, much like her humiliating escape from Emma's trap, she had to admit that it had been shockingly pleasurable. No expectations, no 'spiritual connection', just their bodies meeting. Not even a pretty body, in his case. But as ugly and alien as it objectively was, it had caused her a very great deal of pleasure.

As had the later action with Jean. As much as Jean had changed, theirs was still an old friendship, and she had greatly enjoyed the lovemaking that built on that foundation of sisterhood and companionship. It had been intimate, joyous, and though Ororo guessed Jean would've liked it to have some of the savagery of her encounter with Sauron, the redhead had put Ororo first and given her the perfect pleasing antidote to the orgasmic brutality of earlier.

Now, with some regret, her mind was free to fixate on something other than her own ecstasy.

"Jean," she asked gently, trying her best not to cast any judgment. "Why did you simply sit and watch while that creature had me? You could've stopped him with a thought."

"You needed it," Jean said simply. "If the only way for my friend to relax and get a good fuck is for Mr. Jurassic Park to violate her, then that's what'll happen. Besides, it made for a good show."

"You… enjoyed watching it?" Despite the confessions she'd made to herself, Ororo was still a bit aghast.

"You enjoyed feeling it," Jean replied. "And we both enjoyed tasting it."

Ororo flushed at the memory of Jean kissing her after that first cleansing pass with her tongue—sharing the taste of Sauron and, later, her own. Even so… "I'm going to have to tell Scott about this. I'm sorry, but you're practically engaged."

Jean nodded, almost to herself. "I know you will. It's alright. I would consider that a true act of friendship." She stared up at the sun and did not blink. "It's so hard for me to talk to him now. He's so… small."

"And I'm not?" Ororo asked, rushing to the defense of her other friend.

"You at least know what it feels like. You've thought of yourself that way. You've answered to that name."

"What name?"

"Goddess." Jean smiled at Ororo. For the first time, Ororo thought there was something frightening in that lovely perfection. Something missing. "Zar!" Jean called out. "Bring us our clothes already! It'll be cold soon, and we can't go naked forever!" She smiled at Ororo once more, one last grin. "Goddess or no, we're still ladies. We must hold something back."

Zar came out of the bush, heating with embarrassment, the village seamstresses' work slung over his shoulders. Ororo scowled as he neared.

"He was watching us the whole time?"

Jean kissed Ororo's cheek. "It _was _a spectacle."

* * *

Shanna didn't know why she cried. She had faced far worse situations than being left high-strung and frustrated while covered in a stranger's cum. Her resolve had never faltered then. But being rejected so many times in a single day seemed to twist her world around. She knew she was sexually attractive, and ideally suited for survival in the Savage Land. Why did so many not want to breed with her, preferring instead all manner of strange copulations? She had always known she was different from both soldiers and Fall People, but was she so different that none would have her as the mother of their child? Was she, in the end, just some kind of freak?

"There you are," Zar said, entering the bathhouse, heedless of the fact that Shanna might be nude, given the location. It simply didn't occur to him. Nor, for obvious reasons, did he think he would find Shanna dripping with cum, front and back. But that didn't surprise him nearly as much as her tears. "What's wrong?"

She stared at him. She would not have cared if he saw her covered in mud, or gore, or leeches even, but him seeing her red-eyed like this made her feel even more freakish. "He didn't make me come," she said, with a hitch in her voice that had never been there before. "Why can't anyone make me come? If they won't give me a baby, they could at least make me come…"

Zar knew what to do. He had seen exactly how the outsider Ororo did it for the outsider Jean. Going to Shanna with long, confident strides, he fell to his knees, parted her legs with his hands, and tasted her for himself.

Shanna soon stopped crying.


End file.
